Let us talk about something that is everywhere right now, shrouded in both hype and fear. Let us talk about artificial intelligence, not as a distant technological revolution, but as something far more simple and immediate.

A potential bridge.

For a mind that processes the world differently, daily life can feel like standing on one side of a busy, roaring river. You can see the other side—the place where tasks feel manageable, where communication feels clear, where you are not perpetually exhausted from the effort of crossing. But the current is strong. The water is the flood of text, the rapids of social expectation, the undercurrent of unspoken rules. Every crossing demands a tremendous swim.

What if, instead of demanding you become a stronger swimmer, you were offered a well-built bridge?

This is how I have come to see the thoughtful use of AI. Not as a replacement for thinking, but as an access tool. Not as cheating, but as claiming an accommodation that the physical world is often slow to provide. Glasses do not give you new eyes; they correct the interface between your eyes and the world. The right tool can do the same for your cognition.

I understand the immediate hesitation. For those of us who have been told, directly or indirectly, that we must try harder, the idea of using a tool can feel like admitting defeat. It can feel like the very cheating we were warned against. I felt that too. But I ask you to consider a different question.

What are we really being asked to do?

Often, we are not being asked to think deeply. We are being asked to format our thinking in a specific, neurotypical way. To sequence our ideas linearly on a page at speed. To decode tiny, crowded symbols quickly and without error. To recall verbal instructions perfectly. The brilliance of the thought is irrelevant if it is lost in the struggle with the medium.

This is where a bridge can be built.

Let me give you a few examples, not from a place of expertise, but from a place of shared need.

The Wall of Text.

You receive an email, a report, a school document. The paragraphs blend. The letters dance. Your comprehension plummets before you reach the second sentence. The old way is to squint, to re-read, to grow frustrated, to give up.

The bridge is already there, and it is often free. On most computers and browsers, you can right-click on any text and select Immersive Reader. Watch what happens. The text spreads out. The background softens. The font changes to something clearer. You can have it read aloud to you, each word highlighted as it is spoken. This is not giving up. This is choosing the sensory input that allows your brain to understand. You are not avoiding reading. You are finally accessing the information.

The Blank Page.

You know what you want to say. You feel it clearly. But the process of translating that feeling into structured sentences, with correct spelling and punctuation, feels like constructing a ship in a bottle. The anxiety freezes you. The email does not get written. The idea is not shared.

Here, the bridge might look like a simple prompt. You can open a tool like ChatGPT and type, "I am dyslexic and I struggle to get my thoughts in order. I need to write a clear email to my child's teacher about an upcoming meeting. My main points are: I want to discuss reading support, I am worried about his confidence, I have some observations from home. Please help me structure this into a polite, professional email draft."

You are not asking it to think for you. You are asking it to be a scribe and an editor for the thoughts you already have. It provides a structure. You then pour your voice and your heart into that structure. The thinking remains yours. The struggle with the form is shared.

The Spoken Word That Disappears.

Verbal instructions are a ghost. They are there, and then they are gone, leaving only anxiety in their wake. In meetings, in classrooms, in quick conversations, you are tasked with listening, understanding, and archiving simultaneously.

The bridge here can be a recording. With permission, use your phone to record. Then, use a free transcription tool. You are left with text. But the text is a mess—full of "ums" and tangents. This is where you take that text and ask an AI: "From this transcript, what are the three key action items and their deadlines?" It will pull them out. You have just externalised your working memory. You have converted fleeting sound into a static, visual list you can manage. This is not a failure to listen. It is a sophisticated strategy for ensuring you heard correctly.

A Necessary Word of Caution.

Bridges are tools. You must learn to trust them, but also to test them.

This is the heart of it. It is about redirecting energy. The mental energy you save on decoding, on spelling, on linear structuring, is energy you get back. Energy for deeper understanding. Energy for connection. Energy for joy.

This week, I invite you to a simple experiment. Do not try to master AI. Simply identify one point of consistent friction in your week—one place where you feel that familiar drain. Is it reading the school newsletter? Is it writing a weekly update? Is it planning the steps of a project?

Then, look for a single bridge. One tool. One use. See if it makes the crossing feel less like a struggle and more like a step.

You have spent a lifetime adapting your magnificent mind to a world not built for it. There is no shame in now allowing the world, in the form of these new tools, to adapt a little more to you.

With respect,

P.S. If this feels overwhelming, reply with the one task you'd like to make easier. I cannot build the bridge for you, but I can help point you towards the best materials.