I didn’t set out to write a book.

I set out to survive an experience I couldn’t explain.

For years, I carried the weight of things I didn’t have words for — moments of misunderstanding, waves of loneliness, flashes of profound love followed by equally profound disconnection. It wasn’t until much later that I understood the deeper forces at work: neurodiversity, invisible differences in the way we process language, emotion, and connection.

Writing became a way to piece together the fragments, to find clarity inside the fog, to give voice to the story living inside me.

My Dyslexic Husband is not a book of blame or easy answers. It’s a portrait of complexity — of the ways love can endure even when understanding feels just out of reach, and of the ways we lose and find ourselves in the spaces between.

I wrote this memoir because I needed it — and because I believe, somewhere out there, someone else might need it too.