(Even When You Think You Don’t)
The last two posts have been about how I support D—what it’s like to love someone with ADHD, major depression, and anxiety. About how his journey has affected me. And all of that is true and honest.
But I never want anyone to assume that D is just stuck in some deep pit of sadness 24/7.
Yes, he struggles. But he is also one of the most hilarious, curious, empathetic, and genuinely good humans I have ever met.
He makes me better.
It’s hard sometimes when people ask me how he’s doing—with that soft, pitying tone in their voice. Like he’s a ticking emotional time bomb wrapped in a weighted blanket.
But here’s the thing: These diagnoses don’t make him someone different. They just help us understand how his brain works.
D is the one who taught me it’s okay to just… be myself.
It’s okay to say no to that social thing I don’t want to go to.
It’s okay to completely nerd out over the most random topic—usually we spiral down the rabbit hole together
It’s okay to feel a deep well of empathy and still not have the capacity to fix the thing.
Over our 10+ years together, he’s created a space where I feel safe to be myself—something he didn’t have growing up. And now I say it at work, at home, everywhere: I can only be myself. That’s him. That’s his legacy.
And our kids?
They are loud, curious, goofy, and emotionally fluent. They ask deep questions, share big feelings, and know they’re safe doing it. That’s D too.
He is curious in the best way. The kind of person who listens—to everyone.
Years ago, at parent-teacher conferences, we were chatting with the Spanish teacher. D noticed a subtle difference in her accent (yes, he picks up on that kind of thing). Turns out, she was from a specific region in Spain. D asked questions—not nosy, just interested. By the end of the conversation, she knew he saw her as more than “just” a teacher. For years after, she asked about him by name. That’s who he is.
I’ve seen him do the same thing with strangers who mention chronic illness, mental health, religion, or just being from a different corner of the world. He meets people where they are—with genuine interest and zero judgment.
That’s the D I know.
And I’ll spend my life reminding him of it—because his depression tries to make him forget.
I’ll remind him that he’s the kind of dad every kid deserves.
That he’s made me stronger, more grounded, and more me.
That our kids are lucky as hell. And so am I.
Why Are We Crying? 