When I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2015, I had no idea how much my life would change. By 2021, I had also been diagnosed with Autism. In 2022 came the ADHD diagnosis.
Those years weren’t just about collecting diagnoses. They were about slowly understanding why life had always felt so much harder than it seemed to be for everyone else.
That same year, we welcomed a tiny eight-week-old Schnoodle into our family. Her name was Destiny. She wasn’t supposed to be my dog. She was supposed to be my eight-year-old daughter J’s support animal. It seemed like a wonderful idea.
J is autistic and has ADHD. We hoped a dog would become a calming companion, someone she could bond with and grow alongside. Life had other plans. J loved Destiny. She just wasn’t interested in the endless training that comes with raising a puppy.
As often happens in families, the responsibility quietly shifted. I became the one feeding, training, walking and caring for her. And Destiny made her own decision. She chose me.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I wasn’t even an animal person. In fact, before Cream the cat and Destiny, I probably would have described myself as someone who tolerated pets rather than loved them.
Cream arrived first, in 2021. Then Destiny joined us in 2022. Neither animal followed the plan we had imagined. Instead, they found their own people.
Cream became J’s comfort. She isn’t trained. She isn’t obedient. She is, however, unquestionably the queen of our household. She expects to be carried to breakfast because the floor is cold. She has opinions about absolutely everything. She tolerates the dog because she has decided the dog may exist. Most importantly, she quietly curls up beside J when J needs her.
Destiny chose me. She follows me everywhere. She barks ferociously at Uber drivers before greeting them with enthusiastic kisses. If J and I play-fight, Destiny launches herself between us because she is convinced I need rescuing. She celebrates peanut butter enrichment toys by repeatedly bumping my legs with her backside. She has sampled enough of my coffee that we joke she has a caffeine addiction. She has redecorated the backyard with my dirty laundry.
One memorable night she stole one of my dentures from beside my bed and thoughtfully relocated it to the backyard for me to discover the following morning. Thankfully, dentures are surprisingly durable.
Some people might read that list and think,
“That sounds exhausting.”
Oddly enough… It isn’t.
Because somewhere along the way, we stopped trying to change Destiny. Instead, we changed the environment.
The couch has protectant sprayed on it. Blankets are washable. Coffee never gets left unattended. Dirty washing goes straight into the laundry sink. My dentures now sleep safely under my pillow.
Destiny sleeps in a crate that we’ve built into an old television cabinet in the middle of our family room. Not because she’s shut away. Because she’s one of us.
Looking back, that old cupboard tells its own story. In my twenties, it was my television cabinet. In my thirties, it held my stereo. In my forties, it became J’s baby change table. Now, in my fifties, it holds the television again…
…and underneath it is Destiny’s bedroom.
I’ve realised that’s a pretty good metaphor for my life. Nothing has stayed exactly as it was originally intended.
Everything has adapted.
The biggest surprise wasn’t that Destiny failed as J’s support dog. The biggest surprise was how much she has quietly supported me.
Because I have a dog, I have to walk. Because I have to walk, J and I now complete Parkrun together every second week. Those walks improve my strength and endurance with Multiple Sclerosis.
They build routine. They get us out of the house. They’ve become part of my own capacity building. Destiny, of course, thinks Parkrun is the greatest invention in human history.
Today, while chatting about our funny family stories, I realised something that genuinely surprised me.
For years, if someone had asked whether buying Destiny was the right decision, I probably would have hesitated.
After all… She never became J’s support dog. The original plan didn’t work. But sitting here now, I realised something else.
I’m not resentful. Not even a little.
Instead, I see something I hadn’t recognised before. Autism has taught me that my instinct isn’t to force individuals to fit the environment. It’s to adapt the environment so individuals can succeed.
That’s exactly what we’ve done. With my daughter. With my Multiple Sclerosis. With Cream. With Destiny. Even with old furniture.
I used to think adaptation meant failure. Now I think adaptation is one of the greatest strengths autistic people can bring to a family.
Sometimes support doesn’t arrive in the package you ordered. Sometimes your daughter’s support dog becomes your walking companion. Sometimes the cat becomes your daughter’s emotional support. Sometimes an old TV cabinet becomes a dog’s bedroom.
And sometimes a little black Schnoodle who steals coffee, kidnaps dentures and patrols the neighbourhood with enormous courage quietly teaches you that success isn’t about sticking to the original plan.
It’s about building a life where everyone—including the humans—has somewhere they belong. ❤️
Doing Life Differently 