The One with the Map

Suddenly, “I’m lost” becomes an opening. And “I see something up ahead” becomes an act of love.

It might look like the neurodiverse partner saying, “I trust that you see something I can’t right now—can you help me understand it?” Or “I know you have the map—can you show me where we are?”

In many moments, I’ve been the one holding the map.

Not because I knew exactly where we were going, but because I could see the terrain—emotional terrain, especially—more clearly. I could anticipate the sharp turns, the places we’d likely get stuck, the signals that something was off long before we’d hit the wall.

At times, it felt unfair. I didn’t want to be the navigator. I wanted to feel guided, held, carried too.

And in our everyday life, my husband almost always was the navigator—at least in the physical sense.

When we were out on the boat, or driving to a new place, or hiking a familiar trail, he was the one who led the way.

I have an extremely poor sense of direction, and early in our relationship, when I’d get turned around on trails we’d walked twenty times before, he would sometimes get frustrated.

I remember telling him once, smiling but serious, “This is just something you’re going to have to accept about me.”

And the truth is, when I’m alone, traveling by myself, I can navigate just fine.

But maybe that’s part of it.

Maybe part of me liked letting him lead on the trail because, in so many other ways, I was already carrying the invisible map for us.

The emotional one.

The one with no marked paths, no clear turns, and no easy directions.

I’ve come to understand that in some neurodiverse relationships, the partner without the processing challenges may end up with more of the map. Not because they asked for it—but because they could read it.

This isn’t about superiority. It’s about access.

And with access comes responsibility—but not ownership.

In a healthy relationship, the map-holder isn’t expected to steer alone. Instead, the invitation is:

Can we find a way to navigate together?

That might look like the neurodiverse partner saying, “I trust that you see something I can’t right now—can you help me understand it?” Or “I know you have the map—can you show me where we are?”

It’s not about fixing each other.

It’s about learning how to move forward without one of us constantly dragging, or the other constantly disappearing.

For this to work, trust has to go both ways.

The partner holding the map needs to know that they won’t be resented for naming what’s hard.

And the partner needing help has to feel respected, not managed.

That balance is delicate.

But when you find it—even in the smallest moments—it changes everything.

Suddenly, “I’m lost” becomes an opening.

And “I see something up ahead” becomes an act of love.