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 late at night, trying to find air when the weight of misunderstanding felt too heavy — 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.

As I learned more about dyslexia, neurodiversity, and the ways these unseen forces ripple through relationships, the scope of the memoir grew.

It was no longer just a personal chronicle.

It had the chance to reach others who were living inside similar questions — but with even fewer words for what they were experiencing.

That’s when I knew the title needed to be clear.

If I didn’t name dyslexia directly, the very people who needed this story might never find it.

Still, 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.

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.

His mind — the way it works, the way it sees and solves and imagines — has been part of what carried us through both hardships and triumphs.

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.

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

It is my story — rooted in a specific relationship, shaped by a specific set of challenges — but I believe its reach is broader.

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.