Silent Songbird: The Quiet Strength and Music-Filled World of Sydney Rozeboom
When Sydney Rozeboom entered preschool at the age of four, the world around her felt foreign—like a stage play where everyone knew their lines but her. She watched as classmates easily exchanged words, gestures, laughter. But for her, the instinct to join in never quite arrived. “I didn’t talk to anyone in the school really, during my time there,” she recalls. “The teachers told my parents that I didn’t talk in school, and they were surprised by that, because I talked all the time at home.”
It was one of the first cracks in the mirror—a quiet signal that something was different…But not wrong.
It wouldn’t be until 2012, at age nine, that Sydney received her official diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder. What brought her there was a series of evaluations for selective mutism and memory difficulties. “I was being assessed… and they diagnosed me with Autism Spectrum Disorder” she says. The diagnosis, though not emotionally vivid in her memory, was a puzzle piece clicking into place. It explained the struggle to keep up with school assignments and why some social interactions felt out of sync.
But it did more than explain—it opened a door.
“I ended up getting a lot more support from people,” she shares. “Teachers, counselors, therapists.” While she doesn’t believe being diagnosed earlier would’ve changed much—“I can’t really remember a lot from either of those times anyways”—the clarity it brought gave her a stronger foundation for growth.
Stimming in Silence
Even before she had the language for it, Sydney knew her body was telling stories of its own. “I was aware of the moments when I was stimming,” she says. “I just didn’t know what it was called, or why I was doing it.” She describes rocking back and forth, shaking her fists like small pom-poms, and even looking above her glasses instead of through them. These quiet movements helped her regulate, but they were often misunderstood. “Some people did know that if I did it, I wasn’t paying attention to them.”
Today, her stims have shifted—softer, more private. “I don’t do that as much anymore,” she says. “Sometimes I’ll rock back and forth. Or I’ll go to my bed and put one leg against the side of it, the other in the air. Kind of like a yoga pose.” Music often plays alongside those moments, a steadying soundtrack for her inner world.
It’s this music—both literal and metaphorical—that threads through her life.
Finding Rhythm in Relationship
Communication has always been a layered experience for Sydney. “I have always been a quiet person,” she says. “Sometimes it’s hard to communicate physically because people usually want me to talk louder or more, which sometimes I don’t want to do.”
When she was younger, she was selectively mute. Her mom often chose friends for her, gently nudging her toward connection. “In the beginning of my schooling it was hard for me to make my own friends… but as I went into elementary school, I learned more about how to make friends.” Slowly, Sydney carved out community—groups from school, Girl Scouts, and music.
One of the constants was Rylee, her best friend from second to seventh grade. “She also knew me when I was selectively mute but she was there when I came out of my shell.” Even now, though they’ve grown apart, there’s a quiet assurance between them: “I know that she’s there if I need her.”
And then there was Abigail... “She has always been very special to me,” Sydney says. “We didn’t go to the same school, but she was still there. The last time I saw her was at her baby shower.”
It’s easy to forget how rare and beautiful those lasting friendships are—especially for those navigating communication on different wavelengths.
Sensory Worlds and Self-Awareness
Some of Sydney’s sensitivities are subtle, but real. “I don’t like anything that feels scratchy or too tight,” she explains. “I like wearing softer clothing.” Loud sounds and bright lights aren’t usually a problem—unless they tip into extremes. Food, however, is another story: “Most of the time if I say that I don’t like something, it is because of the texture and not the taste.”
Overwhelming environments are approached with quiet calculation. “I fake it ‘til I make it,” she says, half-joking. “I do feel like I have a social battery.” When that battery drains, she leans into white lies—socially acceptable exits from conversations that feel too long or spaces that feel too much.
What brings her peace? “Music,” she says. “Or talking to my family.”
Beyond the Label
When asked about the term “autistic,” Sydney is thoughtful. “I don’t feel like the label bothers me in terms of where I am on the spectrum,” she says. “But sometimes it bothers me when people think of it as a personality trait… like, yeah, this kid is autistic, but that’s not all that they are, you know?”
And she’s right. Autism isn’t the whole song—it’s the key the music is written in.
“I feel like people take pity on autistic people a lot, which also doesn’t make sense to me,” she adds. “I mean, I feel bad for you if you don’t [have it]. A lot of the time our minds are filled with things that make us more comfortable… and some people don’t have that at all! Man, that would be boring.”
It’s a powerful statement—and a reminder. Neurodiversity isn’t something to fix. It’s something to understand, embrace, and protect.
The Faith of Letting Go
Sydney’s worldview is spiritual but relaxed. “I do believe that something is up there,” she says. “I just don’t know if it’s God or something else… I just don’t think there’s any way that the people I’ve known that have passed away are entirely gone.”
Because of that belief, she lives life a little softer. “If there is a God, I highly doubt that He is as uptight as people believe him to be.”
That openness—of mind and spirit—echoes throughout her answers. Not rigid, not dogmatic. Just real.
A Life with Room to Breathe
Today, school makes more sense. Her brain, once weighed down by confusion, has found its rhythm. “I know more about what works for me in terms of learning material,” she says. Her passions haven’t changed much—music remains a center of gravity. “Sometimes I find other things that I like doing, like bowling… but I don’t do that all the time.”
She dreams of living in a quiet town near the ocean. “I want it to be less busy. I want to become a music teacher to elementary school students—or possibly even lower than that.” The goal isn’t fame or grandeur. It’s joy. Simplicity. A life that feels as true as the notes in a song.
And if she could speak to her younger self?
“I would tell my younger self that it is okay if you feel confused… and that it is also okay to ask for help. I still have trouble with asking for help to this day, but I think it’s gotten a lot better.”
She leaves us with this advice, to anyone on the spectrum:
“You are okay just the way that you are. Some people may try to treat you differently… but in reality, you are the same as they are. You just have a different way of expressing yourself. Use your passions to your advantage… and if you ever feel nervous or anxious, the most important thing is just to breathe. Slowly. Don’t rush it—it’ll come with time.”
Sydney Rozeboom may have been quiet in the classroom, but her story sings loud and clear. She is proof that sometimes, the most powerful music comes from the places we least expect to hear it.
