Before autism, we used to go on proper date nights. The kind where you get dressed up, pick a restaurant, maybe catch a movie. Order dessert you don’t need. Wander around after dinner, just talking.

These days, date night means sneaking out for a two-hour massage while Jayden is cared for by Sisca’s sister, Mirna—or by our daughter, Assya, who steps in like the quiet hero she’s become. They hold the fort so we can breathe, reconnect, and maybe eat a full meal without interruption.

We come back a little lighter, a little more human. And honestly, sometimes that’s all we need.

Sisca’s still the romantic one. I’m still the practical one. She’ll leave little love notes or suggest anniversary plans. I’ll make sure the fuel tank is full and Jayden’s therapy bag is packed. Our gestures are different—but they both say the same thing: I love you, and I’ve got your back.

Autism didn’t change who we are. But it did change how we do things. And rather than fight that, we learned to fight for the things that matter—to us, and to each other.

Tag-Teaming Through Chaos
Marriage is already a marathon. Add autism, and it becomes a relay race with no finish line.
The baton? Constantly moving.

She preps therapy materials. I do the school forms and bills. She manages meltdowns and daily routines. I juggle work meetings and coordinate logistics. And together, we negotiate—not what to put in a lunchbox, but the real question: “Where can we go this weekend that works for Jayden?”

We often laugh about it—our family weekends revolve around layout, acoustics, lighting, and menu availability. Because Jayden doesn’t just need to be included—he needs to be considered.

This consideration has changed us. It’s made us more aware. It’s deepened our empathy—for him, and for each other. We’ve learned to read each other’s fatigue. Sometimes without even speaking, we know who’s closer to the edge and who needs space.

That’s not luck. That’s what happens when two people keep showing up for the same cause: their child and their marriage.

And let’s be clear—Sisca and I are still a couple. We still want anniversary dinners. We still dream of kid-free getaways. We refuse to let autism take that away from us. The logistics are tougher now, yes. But we fight for those moments. Because they matter.

The 90-Minute Restaurant Rule
Jayden loves eating out. But only on his terms.

No dark, narrow spaces. No echoey ceilings or slow kitchens. No multi-course dining. Fine dining? Not in our playbook.

He eats independently, but once he sits—the clock starts ticking. Ninety minutes. That’s our window.

So we plan. We order food before we arrive. If we’re trying someplace new, we check the layout online, call ahead, and confirm one critical thing: fried chicken must be on the menu. If it isn’t, no problem—we stop beforehand and grab Jayden’s go-to meal for takeaway. He brings his food. We order ours. And we eat together, as a family.

We’ve had to leave mid-bite, mid-meal, mid-sentence. Not out of embarrassment—just recognition. We know when his window is closing. When it is, we wrap up and go. No drama.

It’s not glamorous. But it’s us. And when the timing works, when Jayden’s happy, and we get to sit down for a full meal with a bit of conversation—it feels like we’ve won something big.

Real Romance in Small Gestures
Our love isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.

It’s in the check-ins. The squeeze of a hand when we see Assya helping Jayden with something quietly in the background. The knowing glance when Jayden’s on his fifth swim of the day—still naked—and we both just laugh instead of stress.

It’s Sisca letting me sleep a bit longer when Jayden decides to start his day at 3 a.m. It’s me making sure the humidifier in his room is turned on because it helps him regulate. It’s us catching each other mid-chaos and saying, “You okay?” with just our eyes.

Romance now is stolen moments. Shared jokes. A massage appointment we book without telling the other—just because we know it’s needed. It’s making sure we’re not just co-parents, but partners.

Final Reflection: No Break. No Rebuild. Just Us.
We’ve never been the couple that fell apart and had to piece things back together.

Autism didn’t break us. It bent our routines. It challenged our limits. It demanded more than we thought we had. But through all of that, we’ve stayed us.

We still argue. We still laugh. We still say “I love you” in ways that look different than they used to. But the intention? Stronger than ever.

This isn’t some fairy tale wrapped in lessons. It’s two people doing their best. Failing sometimes. Forgiving often. And always—always—choosing each other at the end of the day.

This is Autism Raw.
This is our unscripted journey