17 Years of Love, Neurodivergence, and the Beautiful Mess of Us

 

One of the common traits of neurodivergence is the struggle to master social interactions and manage relationships. For many of us, understanding our own emotions can be a labyrinth. We feel deeply — flying with exuberance, mired in sadness, raging in anger — but we don’t always understand why. That makes it nearly impossible to communicate those emotions to the people around us. 

This all 100% me. 

Even if, for the first 47 years of my life, I didn’t realize the root of those struggles was being AuDHD — a mix of autism and ADHD. Even if I find social interactions about as easy as sculpting Michelangelo’s David using oven mitts and week-old mashed potatoes, today marks the 17th anniversary of the most important relationship in my life. 

Seventeen years ago, I said “I do” and married the love of my life, Emily. 

Neither of us could have predicted what the next 17 years would hold — a wild ride of skyrocketing joys, rocky confrontations, majestic laughter, heartbreaking sadness, golden wins, sweeping adventures, and quiet, simple moments. 

Every marriage has its mountaintops and valleys. But what Emily and I didn’t know on June 7, 2008, was that a neurotypical wife was committing to a neurodivergent husband. We didn’t realize that our brains were wired drastically differently — that we’d often interpret the same moment in opposite ways, tackle the same task from completely different angles, and feel emotions that wouldn’t always make sense to the other. 

We were aware we were different. Emily may have loved me, but she never shied away from calling me “weird.” I saw her as a secret superhero — someone who could juggle a million responsibilities with grace — while I struggled to finish “simple” things. 

I remember us building a shed at our first home, and she casually mentioned that she wasn’t thinking about anything at the moment. I was floored. No racing thoughts? No inner movie about a chicken trying to start a dancing jellybean factory run by blind trolls? What was the point of a brain if it wasn’t constantly inventing chaos? It was my first real moment of understanding that not all brains work the same. 

Over 17 years, we’ve raised two incredible kids. We’ve taken unforgettable trips, cheered each other through triumphs, and held each other through heartbreak. We've shared a life full of wonder, sorrow, growth, arguments, joy, and everything in between. 

But through it all, a ghost haunted me. No matter how hard I tried, I misplaced things. I missed details. I got overwhelmed by small tasks. I failed at what others called “common sense.” 

I felt shame that Emily had a husband who talked to himself, who acted out fictional scenes alone like he was in a one-man improv class. I was embarrassed by my emotional intensity, my sensitivity, and my mind’s refusal to ever shut off. 

Emily could host a party, save the world, and bake muffins before breakfast — and I was burning out just trying to get through the day. I battled anxiety. I battled depression. And then I beat myself up for not being stronger. 

The AuDHD diagnosis was the key that unlocked the mystery. I wasn’t broken — I was just wired differently. I’d spent a lifetime trying to “fix” myself instead of understanding who I truly was. I wasn’t built to be “normal.” I was Windows 95 trying to run on a toaster oven. 

It wasn’t a magic wand. I still feel awkward. I still get overwhelmed. I’m still figuring out how to unmask after 47 years of pretending, how to build a career and life that actually fit me, and how to manage my emotions without sinking into despair. 

But the greatest gift — the glowing gem in this treasure chest of a life — has always been Emily. She’s been there. Through everything. She’s fought for our family. She’s waited patiently when I needed time to open up. And even when I didn’t believe in myself, she never stopped believing in me. 

I know I can be frustrating. I can be distant. I can be emotional. I can be sensitive. Sometimes we didn’t give each other what the other needed. But despite all that, our love endures. We are two wildly different people — but we’re also an amazing team. 

The last few years have been tough, but they’ve also been filled with wonder. We’ve grown stronger as a family through theatre — each of us getting our moment in the spotlight. We’ve watched our kids shine on stage, in school, and in life — guided by the values of kindness, empathy, and compassion. 

We’ve gone on adventures to the Azores and the East Coast. We’ve spent late nights trying to beat cooperative board games (sometimes staring at the board for hours until Everett finds the ten-second miracle move). We've laughed, we've yelled, we've grown. Our marriage isn’t perfect, but there is so much to cherish. So much I hold dear. 

There’s still work to be done — but Emily is the person I want to do that work with. I need to ask for help more. I need to do the work of explaining how this weird and wonderful brain works. I want us to keep finding new ways to turn our differences into a strength — to become the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of couples: two distinct flavours, better together. 

Emily might not always say “I love you” the way my brain craves, and I may not always show up the way she needs. But I see the love in her actions, and I know that it's real. I’m unique — not lesser. And so is our marriage. It’s messy and flawed, but beautiful. 

There’s something magical that’s always been here. I’m excited to keep building on that. To keep learning. To keep growing. And most importantly, to keep loving. 

Happy 17th anniversary, Emily. I deeply, truly, madly love you. Here’s to many more.