My Heart Needs a Snuggle

Welcome to Offscripted.

I’ve restarted this blog more times than I can count. Every time I sat down to write, I found myself wondering what the first post should be about. Should I write about autism advocacy? Hockey? Creativity? Neurovaliant? The Assembly? There were so many places I could begin that I ended up beginning nowhere at all.

Then it hit me.

If this blog is going to be called Offscripted, then maybe the first thing I write shouldn’t be about what I do. Maybe it should be about who I am.

So, here’s the most honest sentence I can think of.

My heart needs a snuggle.

I know that probably sounds strange. It certainly isn’t something you expect a thirty-something year old dude to write, especially one who’s spent years speaking publicly, interviewing people on national television, working in hockey, and advocating for autism acceptance. But the more I thought about those words, the more I realized they’re the closest I’ve ever come to describing a feeling I’ve carried for a long time.

I’m not talking about a hug. I’m not talking about physical affection. I’m talking about emotional companionship—the kind that comes from having one person who knows your heart. Someone you instinctively want to text when something exciting happens. Someone you call after a difficult day because you know they’ll simply listen. Someone who celebrates your victories as though they’re their own and quietly reminds you that you don’t have to carry everything by yourself.

For most people, I’m known through the work I do. Some know me as an autism advocate. Others know me through hockey, graphic design, Neurovaliant, or the opportunity I had to interview celebrities on national Canadian television. Every one of those experiences has shaped me, and I’m incredibly grateful for all of them. If you’d told sixteen-year-old me where life would take him, I don’t think he would’ve believed you.

But those accomplishments are only part of my story.

When the interview ends, when the arena empties, when the microphone is packed away and the laptop finally closes after another late night, I’m no longer any of those titles. I’m simply Lucas—a guy who’s genuinely thankful for the life he’s built but who still, from time to time, feels a quiet sense of loneliness.

That surprises some people. We often assume that if someone’s life looks meaningful from the outside, they must feel complete on the inside. I’ve learned those are two very different things.

Years ago, I was in a relationship that ended just before Valentine’s Day. It lasted only eight months, but like many first loves, I gave it everything I had. When it ended, I was heartbroken. Looking back, I don’t think I realized how much that heartbreak changed me. My heart didn’t stop believing in love; it simply became quiet. Without meaning to, I built walls around it. I poured my energy into purpose instead.

Those years weren’t wasted. Quite the opposite. I found my voice in advocacy. I discovered opportunities I never imagined. I met remarkable people, built lasting friendships, and created work that gave my life meaning. On paper, everything was moving forward.

Then, years later, someone came into my life who unknowingly changed me. There wasn’t some dramatic romance or movie ending. There was simply kindness, encouragement, and friendship. Over time, I realized I’d developed feelings for her, so I chose to be honest. She thanked me for telling her, explained she was already in a relationship, and hoped we could remain friends.

I respected that immediately, and I still do.

What stayed with me wasn’t disappointment. It was gratitude.

Because for the first time in nearly a decade, I realized my heart was capable of feeling again.

She didn’t “fix” me, and that was never her responsibility. What she did, without even realizing it, was remind me that the part of my heart I’d assumed had disappeared was still there. It hadn’t been lost. It had simply been waiting.

Believe it or not, I eventually thanked her for that. I thanked her for helping reopen a part of my heart that I’d quietly closed off after years of protecting it. She may never have fully understood what that meant to me, but I did. Sometimes people leave a lasting mark on your life not because of a relationship that was, but because they helped you rediscover a part of yourself you thought was gone. For that, I’ll always be grateful.

That realization changed the way I understood myself.

I began to realize that what I was longing for wasn’t some perfect romance or storybook ending. It was companionship. I wanted someone I could share ordinary life with. Someone I could text after a great day and say, “You’ll never guess what happened.” Someone I could call after a difficult one and simply ask, “Can we talk for a few minutes?”

I love my parents deeply, and I’m grateful for everything they’ve done for me. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve realized there are conversations that naturally belong with a life partner rather than with your family. Not because your parents wouldn’t care, but because some parts of adulthood are meant to be shared with the person walking beside you. That’s the connection I’ve found myself missing.

Today, I can honestly say something I never thought I’d say well over ten years ago.

I’m ready.

Not because my life is perfect. Not because I’ve accomplished everything I hope to accomplish. Not because I’ve somehow figured life out.

I’m ready because my heart is open again.

That leaves me with one simple question.

Who?

I don’t know who she is. I don’t know where our paths will cross or when that chapter of my life will begin. Maybe it’ll happen next month. Maybe years from now. Life has surprised me before, and maybe it’ll surprise me again.

Until then, I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done. I’ll keep advocating. I’ll keep creating. I’ll keep cheering on the people I care about. I’ll keep building a life that I’m proud of.

Because when that day finally comes, I don’t want to hand someone an empty life and ask her to fill it.

I want to invite her into a life that’s already rich with purpose, kindness, laughter, and hope.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to say all along.

When I say, “My heart needs a snuggle,” I’m not saying my life is empty.

I’m saying my heart has made room for someone.

And I think that’s one of the most hopeful feelings a person can have.