For Those Who Are Waiting: The Ones Still Hoping to Be Met
A reflection on the heartbreak of trying to connect in a neurodiverse relationship—and the courage it takes to keep the door open, even when it hurts.
— Calla Hart
I just had one of those moments again—the kind where you’re trying to connect, really trying, and it somehow spirals into the opposite of what you intended.
I said something today—neutral, almost playful. A comment meant to share something I’ve only recently come to understand about us. About me. About how we work (or don’t work) in certain moments. It wasn’t meant to criticize. It wasn’t a dig. I was trying to laugh with him, not at him. But the moment it left my mouth, I saw the wall go up. Again.
He took it as criticism. Shut down. And suddenly I’m not the woman offering connection, I’m the one “making fun.”
That’s not what happened. But that’s how he experienced it.
And that, in some way, always seems to win.
It’s devastating—how easily that misunderstanding takes over. How hard I’m working to keep the door open. How many times he’s promised to sit down with me, to talk about all of this. About the writing, the healing, the understanding I’ve been trying to build.
Three times he’s said, “Yes, I’ll come talk with you.”
Three times he hasn’t shown up.
And still—I wait.
I leave the door open.
Not because it doesn’t hurt, but because I want this.
Because I love him. Because I believe in the possibility of change.
But loving someone who doesn’t—or maybe can’t—meet you in the way you’re aching to be met… is lonely. Even when you’re not alone.
This is for the ones who are waiting.
Waiting to be heard.
Waiting to be joined.
Waiting for the smallest sign that the work you’re doing in the background is not invisible.
I see you.
I know how hard it is when you’ve softened your tone, reworded your truth, checked your timing, chosen your moment carefully… only to be met with a shutdown.
You are not crazy. You are not mean. You are not overreacting.
You are someone trying to build a bridge with someone who’s not yet ready to cross it.
That hurts in a particular way.
And sometimes, it’s not just the big moments. It’s the tiny ones—the ones that slide past unnoticed, but leave you unsettled all the same.
This morning, I was making him breakfast. The same one he’d enjoyed the day before—his request, which felt like a small, sweet compliment. I was plating the food, moving in my rhythm, balancing timing and warmth, when he stepped in—unannounced—reaching for more toast. He didn’t mean anything by it. He was hungry. He thought he was helping.
But in that small moment, something shifted. My flow was interrupted. The butter knife I needed was gone. I couldn’t reach the spatula. The eggs. My plate was pushed aside.
He sat down and began to eat while I was still standing, slightly disoriented, trying to remember what came next.
I laughed. Just a little. Not because it was funny, but because I noticed something: before, that might have upset me. Today, it only left me quiet.
What changed wasn’t the moment. It was my awareness. I could see, for once, the tiny ripple underneath: the way I had imagined completing this meal with care, the way I still longed to be noticed—not just thanked, but recognized in the space I was holding. The rhythm I was creating. The quiet choreography that got disrupted without pause. His urgency—his need to eat, to move—so often eclipsed that. It wasn’t malice. But it also wasn’t shared space.
Sometimes it’s not the toast. It’s not the butter knife. It’s the cooling plate in your hands and the loneliness of not being seen inside the effort.
It was the same earlier that day when he came home with a bunch of groceries. He asked me to unload them—which I was doing, gladly—but before I could finish, he stepped in again, taking over the task in his own way. Not because he meant to dismiss me. But because, once again, his urgency overtook the quiet process I had already begun.
It’s not that I needed thanks. I just wanted to be left to it. To be trusted with it. To not be displaced in the middle of something I was already doing with care.
I’m learning that it’s never just one moment, but several—stacked before the day even properly starts. This morning, in less than an hour together, there were three. First the door—how I asked, again, for it to be closed gently—and it was received as a criticism instead of a gentle reminder. Then the groceries. Then the breakfast. None of them loud. None of them dramatic. But each one tugged at me in a small way.
Disoriented me. Displaced me. And the old version of me might’ve just swallowed it, told myself it wasn’t worth mentioning. But I’m learning to name these things now. To give voice to the accumulation instead of burying it under patience.
I’m also still learning where hope ends and boundaries begin. Still learning what it means to keep the door open without leaving myself outside in the cold.
If you’re waiting too… I just want to say: You’re not the only one.
And you deserve to be met in return.
I see his effort.
The way he stopped at the grocery store, took our dog Charlie for a walk, dropped off the car for service. I notice those things. I do.
But I guess my hope is that one day… he’ll notice me.
Not just the meals or the cleaning or the logistics I hold in my head—but the quiet choreography behind it all. The emotional weight I carry. The invisible recalibrations I make just to stay connected.
And in the meantime—while I wait—I’m doing my best to be patient. To hold space for the person I love while feeling, at times, deeply alone.
To keep believing that understanding is possible, even when I feel misunderstood.
That’s the hardest part.
But it’s also the hope I haven’t quite let go of yet.
