This month's cover features a photo taken by my late husband, Jordan Fox. He was on a fishing trip off the coast of Long Beach. While he didn't catch a thing, he did snap this great picture of the seagulls waiting for a snack. My husband was such an important figure in my life. We were together 17 years. I felt so supported, cared for and loved by him. We were able to move to new countries and travel around the world during our time together. Having him as my partner gave me the strength to keep trying when things felt too much. He accepted me as I am before and after diagnosis, and was always invested in coming up with new ideas to make life more manageable for me. I'm not sure how to go forward without him. Hoping with time I can learn to trust life. I will forever be grateful for the love Jordan brought to my life. In memory of Jordan Michael Fox June 14, 1983 -- October 7, 2025

Even if we were both NTs, which we’re not, we would be making accommodations for each other. The difference for us is that the accommodations you make for me are due to the way my brain is wired, whereas the accommodations I make for you are related to your life experiences. An example I use in the chapter on NT/ND romantic relationships is your fear of dogs and how I help you manage that. And that’s a common thread throughout this book. We’re all making accommodations in life, regardless of neurotype. 

I agree. 

What’s something you’ve learned about yourself and our relationship, especially regarding how you handle differences?

I can manage life in general much better. I think that it’s partly age and experience, but it’s partly being with you and being in our relationship. I can take myself out of a situation better than I used to be able to, and I’m better able to depersonalize conflict. An example is if I get rejected professionally, I don’t take it personally at all. I can be a bit more philosophical.

What is something you think we do better as a couple because of our differing neurotypes?

Each of us optimizes for different things, and each of us recognizes that the thing the other one optimizes for is worthy of doing. In the end, I think we end up having a better life because we balance each other. It would be boring if we were too similar.

Speaking of balance, balancing our sometimes contradictory needs is a big part of how we manage our relationship and lives. How do you make sure your needs are met while also considering my neurodivergent needs?

Early in our relationship, you taught me that you have to be a strong me to be a strong we. At first, I wasn’t good at that, and then, over time I learned not to worry when you were being a strong me and I wasn’t included. Now, I don’t mind going to social events on my own if you want a night off or if you want to do something on your own. It took time, but I feel we do this well. It’s probably because we’re secure in our relationship.

I want to talk about something that’s particularly challenging for me—my downs. While I’ve been able to manage my downs better as I age, they still happen. A few months ago, I had a major down, one of my worst ever. It took me weeks to recover. I know my downs don’t just affect me but you as well. How do you approach navigating my downs as my partner?

I think the most challenging thing is to understand that at times there’s nothing I can do to help. Certainly, if it’s because of something I’ve done, I can cease the behavior. Or if it’s a situation that’s problematic for you, I can help to remove you from it, and then there are times where I’m not aware of what’s going on. The downs are mysterious, and I really don’t know what to do.

I think something you’ve done a great job with is anticipating crowds and what they do to me. If we must move through a crowd, which unfortunately is often, you sort of get a bubble going around me and try to find a path through the crowd for us that is less dense. I really appreciate that. 

You see me in great anguish and distress when I’m in a down. How do you cope or manage your own emotions?

In the moment, I try to manage it. Managing crises is something I do in my job, and it’s something I’ve done over my life with close family members who have various kinds of emotional and non-neurotypical reactions. And so being around that has allowed me to at least in the moment manage the situation and not make it personal.

What do you think we could do together to make these times less stressful for both of us?

The thing to do is to better anticipate the potential for downs. So, for instance, we recently decided to go to a big event, and before we bought tickets to the event, I looked at it and realized that it was going to be tough for you. We talked about what might happen, things we could do to mitigate problems, and then together we decided that based on all of that, the experience of the event was worth the risk. It was helpful that we had the conversation prior to attending so that we could be deliberate in our approach and prepared for what might happen. In the end, everything went well, and we had a good time. 

I appreciate how you take the time to think through situations with me like that—it makes a big difference. Speaking of challenges…What are some of the most difficult things about being with me as someone on the spectrum?

One day, after the front door slammed on our way out of the house, I winced, and you thought I was being melodramatic. I explained that when the door slammed, it felt like I was being physically slapped. You stood there, looking shocked, and I felt like in that moment you understood. Since then, I try to describe what I’m going through in terms that I think you may be able to understand. For example, when I’m feeling overwhelmed before a down, I may say that it feels like a giant hand is squeezing my heart.

Certainly, that was a telling moment. I think that part of the challenge I was having is that, in my mind, you present as unemotional, and you don’t react. And then certain things would happen and you would react very strongly to them, and that was inconsistent to me. I didn’t know how to process that. Since then, I’ve learned that a strong reaction to noise, or a strong reaction to a physical environment, or a strong reaction to crowds provokes what appears as an emotional reaction in someone who I would generally describe as unemotional.

That makes sense—I can see how I may present as contradictory.

What advice would you give to other neurotypicals who are in a relationship with someone who is neurodiverse?

It was incredibly useful to me to access therapy. I learned to better understand how you’re wired and to not have anxiety if you reacted in ways that were counter to what I expected. It helped me understand your sensory issues, why you sometimes lack a filter, your discomfort with certain types of socializing, and why you’re less emotional.

I learned to take what you say in the spirit with which it was said, and to tell myself, that’s just how she communicates.

On the flipside, I think about all the things you do for me, including your willingness to endure loud places and to socialize more. I realize that it’s your way of showing love and that you’re not about to break up with me. When you share what you’re thinking in an unfiltered way, you’re not criticizing me; you’re sending me a message of how you want to make things better between us, and I need to take it in that spirit.


Yes. If you can understand where your neurodivergent partner is coming from and how the world affects them, and you can take yourself out of that, which is not always easy, but if you can do that and at the same time focus on the amazingness that comes into your life by being with someone who is on the spectrum, it’s like you won the lottery.

This feels like a super intense therapy session.

I love you, sweetie. 

I love you too, sweetie.

Read more about The Autistic Adult's Toolbox, by Natalie Diggins

Kiya mumbles, “Good,” but then she cries three times on the ten-minute walk home and she can tell by the time they get there that she’s making her mom mad. Kiya hates making her mom mad, but she doesn’t know how to stop it, and that makes her madder, the wind and rain inside Kiya starting to spin into a baby tornado.

They’ve barely been home five minutes, her mom in the kitchen washing dishes and making a snack, when Kiya accidentally pulls too hard on their dog Stella’s fur. Hearing their dog cry out, Kiya’s mom snaps at her from the kitchen, “Kiya! Leave Stella alone!” And that’s when the storm breaks.

Kiya runs upstairs to her mom’s bed, the mad and sad feelings so big and charged, Kiya’s body becomes a small cloud trying to hold back a raging thunderstorm. Lightening cracks. Kiya screams at the top of her lungs while swinging her fists down to hammer on her legs, “I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself!”

Thunder booms and Kiya bursts into sobs. She pulls at her hair hard enough to rip out strands of it and then moaning, scratches at her face and neck with her fingernails. Kiya screams, cries, hits, kicks, and claws as the storm bursts from her like a cyclone ready to destroy a city. Kiya thrashes on the bed, head, fists and feet bashing the quilts and pillows beneath her, her whole body arching up and down like a small boat on enormous waves.

Kiya is barely aware that her mom followed her upstairs and now lays quietly on the bed beside her. Kiya doesn’t hear her mom’s slow, long breaths as if she’s hoping her calm body will help Kiya’s body know that she’s safe. Kiya can only hear the sounds the storm makes as it rips from her body, Kiya at once the wild storm and the lone little girl in the middle of it.

All storms, even the most terrible and destructive ones, stop eventually.

Kiya’s sobs and screams become quieter tears and sniffles. She takes one long shaky breath. “I know you don’t like to be held or hugged when you’re upset, but can I put my hand on your back?” her mom asks. Kiya nods wordlessly from where she is, face down in the pillows. They lay like that for a few minutes, Kiya still catching her breath.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kiya’s mom asks.

From within the pillows comes Kiya’s muffled, “Yes.”

“Do you really hate yourself?” Kiya’s mom asks her, voice soft and gentle. Kiya rolls her face and body towards her mom, who softly brushes hair away from her face, asking if the touch is okay. It is.



“I wonder how much of what makes being Autistic hard is because the world around you makes it hard. I wonder how much of what makes it feel bad is because the people around you, even me sometimes, don’t understand you, think you should be different, and make you feel bad.”

All day long the elements for a storm gather inside Kiya’s brain and body: the loud noises, too many bodies, the unwanted smells, tastes and touches, the social expectations needing Kiya to be different, Kiya’s constant confusion, and the never-ending messages that Kiya is different, other, and bad. The storm can only stay inside her for so long, and Kiya can’t control when it breaks loose or what she does when it consumes her.

“Is this okay?” Kiya’s mom asks as she runs her fingers through Kiya’s hair. Kiya nods, not meeting her mom’s gaze. They are quiet together for a long time, lying beside each other, nestled safe and sweet.

“I’m sorry, honey,” her mom finally says. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault. You are doing the very best you can, and most days what’s asked of you is way too much. It isn’t fair, and it isn’t right. The problem is the world you were born into, never you my sweet girl. You’re told in so many ways every day that you are wrong, so of course you feel wrong, but I promise it’s not true. There is nothing wrong with you. I don’t know how we’ll make it better, but we’re going to try.”

Kiya’s body has relaxed, and her brain has reset. Nothing is too big inside her and she can easily think again. “I do like that I’m Autistic a lot of the time. Just not all the time,” Kiya says into the calm surrounding her. “Good,” her mom answers. “I like that you’re Autistic too.“ Kiya’s mom squeezes Kiya tightly to her side once and lets go.

“I farted,” Kiya whispers and loud bursts of laughter break the quiet in the room.

“Ewwwww!” her mom shrieks. “You’ll have to call an ambulance when I pass out from the fumes!” her mom teases as Kiya lets her tongue loll out, pretending that she’s dead. Her mom grabs her in a sudden, fierce hug. “I love you exactly as you are and more than you could ever possibly imagine,” she declares.

“I know, Mom,” Kiya answers with an eye roll. “Can you tickle me now?”

And as her mom tickles her, Kiya squealing in delight, the sun comes through the fading clouds and beams in the bright blue clear sky. The air is still and the world inside Kiya is calm. For now.