The book I needed is the one I wrote.
I didn’t mean to write a book. I was just trying to make sense of things. When I searched “adult dyslexia,” something clicked—and the words came like a waterfall. In the writing, I found my voice.
My Dyslexic Husband is a memoir first and foremost—but it’s also part guide, part mirror. It traces the patterns I couldn’t name, the weight I didn’t realize I was carrying, and the quiet unraveling that came from loving someone whose brain works so differently from mine.
It’s for anyone navigating the ache of miscommunication, the silence after a shutdown, and the invisible labor of trying to hold it all together—especially when the person you love doesn’t always speak the same emotional language.
BEHIND THE TITLE
“My Dyslexic Husband” felt startling at first — almost too raw, too exposed. I wrestled with it, questioning whether it was too much — and worrying whether it might unintentionally reduce my husband to a single aspect of who he is.
But this memoir isn’t about blame. It’s not about pointing fingers or airing grievances. It’s about love, misunderstanding, and the quiet unraveling that happens when you’re trying to hold on—without the words to explain why it’s so hard.
This story is rooted in my lived experience. It’s a personal reflection, not a clinical diagnosis.
And the title isn’t meant to define my husband—it’s meant to name the journey. So that others living through similar confusion might finally feel seen.
Dyslexia Isn’t Rare. Our Understanding of It Is.
Dyslexia affects 1 in 5 people. That’s 20% of the global population—or more than 1.5 billion people worldwide. It’s the most common language-based learning difference, and yet it remains one of the least understood—especially in adulthood. Most of us learned about dyslexia through stories of children struggling to read. But what happens when those children grow up? When they become someone’s partner, someone’s parent, someone’s spouse?
You’re drained.
Emotionally exhausted.
Mentally overloaded.
No one sees it—maybe not even you. But you feel it. In your body. In the quivers. In the ache. In the lost sense of self. In the way everything seems harder than it should be.
You’re doing everything, and it still feels like it’s not enough.
This is what it can feel like to love someone with dyslexia or ADHD—and not even realize how deeply it’s shaping your disconnection, your miscommunication, and the slow, quiet muting of your voice.
You feel confused.
Blindsided.
Overwhelmed.
Dismissed.
Unheard.
Unloved.
Unappreciated.
Unacknowledged.
—Lost.
It didn’t happen overnight.
It happened slowly. Quietly.
And sometimes all at once.
Invincible, until it wasn’t.
Hidden, until it couldn’t be unseen.
Being able to name it gave me hope. These were the words that helped me see the truth beneath the confusion.
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An intense emotional sensitivity to real or perceived criticism, rejection, or failure. Even small moments can trigger overwhelming pain or shame.
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A state of being so emotionally overwhelmed that thinking, speaking, or engaging calmly becomes nearly impossible. The nervous system is in survival mode.
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A pause between receiving information and being able to understand or respond to it. This isn’t about intelligence—it’s about how the brain integrates input.
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Uneven cognitive strengths and challenges. Someone might be brilliant in one area (like problem-solving) but struggle with everyday tasks like time management or emotional regulation.
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Masking means suppressing true feelings or behaviors to fit in. Over time, this can lead to shutdowns—when the system can’t cope and goes silent, still, or disconnected.
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When lights, sounds, textures, or other sensory inputs feel too intense, leading to discomfort, irritability, or withdrawal. It’s not a preference—it’s a physiological response
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When two caregivers operate independently—often by necessity—due to differing communication styles, emotional bandwidth, or parenting philosophies.
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The mental weight of constantly having to process, translate, or adapt—especially in relationships where one person carries the role of interpreter, organizer, or emotional anchor.
It’s okay to need something solid to hold onto
When your nervous system is on overdrive, your thoughts loop, and everything feels like too much—you don’t need advice. You need language. You need truth. You need rest. You need a way to name what’s happening without collapsing under it. And maybe, you need to know that someone else has been here too.
featured blog posts
The Hardest Part About Writing This Book
When people ask me what the hardest part of writing My Dyslexic Husband was, the answer isn’t about the late nights, the rewrites, or even finding the right words.
It’s this: trying to tell the truth while protecting the person I love.
Why I Write About Both Dyslexia and ADHD
At first, I thought the challenge was ADHD. My husband was officially diagnosed six years into our relationship, after years of me gently urging him to seek an assessment. But over time, I discovered it wasn’t just ADHD — it was also dyslexia.
Read more >
How a Personal Journal Became a Universal Memoir
The journaling started as a lifeline in those moments of feeling alone. I didn’t initially set out to write a book. As I continued, the narrative evolved. I realized that it wasn’t just about me. It needed to honor my husband’s experience and the layers we both carried.
Whether you’re holding on, letting go, or simply learning to breathe again—you’re not doing it alone anymore. This story won’t give you all the answers. But it might help you ask better questions.
This isn’t the end of the road.
It’s a turning point.
You don’t need to have it all figured out.
This story may have started as mine, but maybe something in it sounds like yours.
Not all relationships are meant to stay. Not all love stories are meant to end. But all of them deserve to be understood. If you’re somewhere in between — still deciding, still holding on, still trying — I wrote this for you, too.
Take what fits. Leave the rest. And know that even here, there is forward.
from the author: calla hart
“I didn’t set out to write a book. I set out to survive in my relationship—and somehow found a story that healed me.”
Explore more: Emotional Impacts of Dyslexia and ADHD in Marriage
About the Author
Calla Hart writes under a pen name to protect the privacy of those she loves, and to speak freely about the unseen moments that shape a life. She is a writer, creative strategist, and artist whose work lives at the intersection of tenderness and truth. My Dyslexic Husband is her debut memoir, born from a deep desire to make sense of the unspoken and offer a compass to others navigating neurodiverse relationships. She splits her time between Canada and Mexico, often with sand on her feet and a notebook in hand.
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