When I first started writing, I didn’t know what the title would be. In fact, I didn’t even know I was writing a book.

What began as a private act — scribbling down fragmented thoughts, recording voice notes late at night, sometimes early in the morning — eventually grew into something I could no longer contain inside journals or whispered conversations.

At first, the words were only for me. A way to survive the swirl of emotions that didn’t seem to have a clear place or explanation.

In the early stages, titles like Misread and Misunderstood floated through my mind — small, sharp words that captured the aching gap between what I felt and what I could express. For a long time, it seemed the memoir would live there: in the fracture, the fog, the confusion.

But over time, the writing shifted. It became less about untangling my own experience, and more about honoring the layered story we were living inside — a story shaped by invisible differences neither of us fully understood at the time.

Which is strange to say, because the diagnosis was never hidden.

My husband was diagnosed with dyslexia when he was eight years old. He even attended a specialized school for it as a child. I knew that about him. It wasn’t a secret.

But what I didn’t know — what neither of us fully grasped — was the relational impact of dyslexia.

How it could affect communication, sequencing, memory, or emotional safety in adulthood.

How it could quietly shape the way stories get told, remembered, or misunderstood. How it could change not just how we read words — but how we read each other.

The sequencing piece, in particular, was deeply confusing.

We would have an argument, and from my perspective, I was reacting — sometimes even snapping — after he had said or done something upsetting. But later, when we tried to talk about it, he would only recall my reaction. My blow-up. He wouldn’t remember what preceded it. To him, it felt sudden, disproportionate. To me, it felt like gaslighting. But in reality, it was neither. It was dyslexia, showing up in a way neither of us had been taught to recognize.

And in the later years — particularly around year seven — another layer emerged that hurt deeply: when we’d find ourselves in emotional conflict, he began to dismiss my feelings as hormonal. “You’re just in a mood.” “It’s probably menopause.”

It was devastating. It took something already hard — the effort of trying to be understood — and added a kind of erasure on top of it. It made me question my own clarity. It made me feel invisible.

Still, I was trying to understand.

And then one night, after yet another breakdown I couldn’t quite explain, I found myself at my wit’s end—thinking, What is this? Why does this keep happening? I don’t even remember what sparked it.

I just remember the feeling: like something had to give. I sat down, and without thinking, my fingers typed the words “adult dyslexia” into the search bar.

What came up hit me like a punch in the stomach. I let out a desperate, guttural cry — not just from pain, but from recognition. It felt like watching a wall of bricks tumble.

Suddenly, I could see what I’d been living through. I started to piece it all together. That moment — April 9, 2025 — was the beginning of everything.

The book.
The website.
The course.

Still, My Dyslexic Husband felt like a bold title — like opening a door too quickly. I worried it might sound reductive. Because he is so much more than a diagnosis.

He doesn’t fit the narrow, often stereotyped images many people associate with dyslexia.

He is brilliant in business, deeply respected by colleagues and friends, and has built a successful life not only for himself, but for our family.

For a long time, I found myself comparing—how he could be so steady in business meetings, so sharp with client needs, so composed under pressure—especially when supported by the structure and systems in place at work. And yet at home, where the emotional terrain was messier and the scaffolding was often me, things would fall through. The follow-through wasn’t always there. At least, not in the same way.

Eventually, I came to understand—it wasn’t about ability. It was about emotion. Business was clearer, less personal, less charged. And there, he had support.

(The kind of support I’d come to know well. But that’s another chapter.)

Choosing this title was never about labeling him.

It was about naming the journey — the unseen terrain we both navigated, the emotional architecture built in silence, the resilience that shaped both of us in ways neither of us could fully explain.

It was about making the invisible visible, so that others might feel less alone inside their own invisible struggles.

Six years into our relationship—now in year eight as I write this—my husband was also diagnosed with ADHD.

It was something I had quietly suspected for a long time. At first, I gently encouraged him to explore it. But eventually, when the cracks in our communication kept widening, I reached a point where I couldn’t keep waiting. I put my foot down. I told him it needed to be looked at—not for me to be right, but for us to have a chance.

And yes, there were moments when that felt like pressure to him. Moments he interpreted as threat. But to me, it felt like survival.

Some of the patterns we experienced — like emotional flooding, occasional impulsivity, task-switching, avoidance at times, or inconsistency with follow-through — began to make more sense. They weren’t constant, and they didn’t define him. But they did affect us.

And emotional overwhelm, especially in high-stakes conversations, became something I learned to anticipate.

Perhaps one of the hardest dynamics, especially when I was reaching out with vulnerability, was something I later learned had a name: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD).

It wasn’t just that my words landed wrong — it was how personally they landed. A comment intended to open a door would sometimes trigger deep hurt or defensiveness, shutting the door before I could step through it.

When I was seeking connection, it often felt like I was inadvertently causing pain.

When I needed to feel understood, I instead found myself retreating. It created a loop of hurt and silence I couldn’t always find my way out of.

So yes — ADHD shaped part of our story.

And RSD, in particular, shaped many of the moments I never expected would be so hard. But it was dyslexia that first gave me language for the emotional dissonance I was feeling.

It was the earliest thread that helped me stop internalizing the tension. It helped me see the invisible.

Dyslexia is still one of the least understood learning differences in adult relationships.

We talk about it in classrooms, but rarely in bedrooms, boardrooms, or marriage counselors’ offices.

And yet, it impacts communication, sequencing, memory, and emotional safety in quiet but powerful ways.

We’re having more conversations now about ADHD in relationships. There are books, support groups, podcasts, entire Instagram communities. But when I went searching for stories about dyslexia in adult partnerships, I found almost nothing.

That silence was staggering.

So I stayed with the title My Dyslexic Husband.

Because that word — dyslexia — was the start of everything.

At its heart, My Dyslexic Husband is a memoir about holding on, letting go, and finding your voice.

It’s rooted in my story — shaped by a particular relationship and a specific set of challenges— but I believe its resonance is broader.

What began as my story has become our story.

And as it travels, I’m realizing just how universal these questions of love, language, and understanding truly are.

My Dyslexic Husband speaks to anyone navigating the ache of miscommunication, the search for understanding, or the quiet unraveling that can happen when love and language don’t align.

It’s a story for anyone who has loved through complexity.

For anyone who has fought to stay connected across differences.

For anyone who has struggled with voice, with being heard, with holding onto themselves inside a relationship that doesn’t always speak their language.

You are not alone.

Whether your relationship has been touched by neurodiversity or simply by the beautiful, messy complexity of human love — there is a place for you here.