O is my second born. He is autistic, non-speaking and has global developmental delay. These are the descriptors you might read on paper, but they don’t even begin to capture the complexity and beauty of who he is.
From the moment he was born, I knew he was different from his brother. Not in a negative way—just different. The way he interacted with me and the world felt unfamiliar, like being in a place where I didn’t yet speak the language. And truthfully, I didn’t. I struggled.. not because he was hard to love (he wasn't, he was easy to love), but because I didn’t know anything about autism. I didn’t know how to parent a child whose needs, rhythms and communication were so profoundly different from what I’d expected and knew. I felt completely lost in the beginning.
Time passed, and O made many sounds. Beautiful, expressive, often musical sounds. But full speech never came. He had things to say—so many things—but not through spoken words. Instead, he communicated in the ways that made sense to him: through vocalisations, facial expressions, eye gaze, gestures, body movement and later, with objects of reference and pulling my hand toward what he wanted me to see or do.
It took me a long time to understand this communication. His communication. At first, I was stuck in this very narrow idea of what communication “should” look like: spoken words, clear articulation, back-and-forth conversation. But O was already speaking. I just wasn’t listening properly.
And not only was he speaking to me, he was listening too. O’s receptive language is incredible. He understands what’s being said to him and around him, even when people assume he’s not paying attention. I talk to him all the time about everything. What we’re doing, where we’re going, how I’m feeling, what I notice. Sometimes it seems like he’s busy stimming or looking away, but I’ve learned that he is always taking things in. He hears it all. He processes it in his own time and way, but he’s listening.
And what’s more, he remembers. He builds connections. He feels the weight of words, even the ones not directly addressed to him. That’s why I never censor my language around him. He deserves full conversations, not half-spoken thoughts. He’s not on the outside of things. He’s right here with me, always.
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O also stims a lot vocally. His vocal stimming is part of how he processes the world, how he expresses emotion, how he anchors himself in a space and how he communicates certain things. There’s a lot of scripting and echolalia and his spoken words mostly come out when singing.
And yes, we still get looks when we’re out. People don’t always understand what they’re hearing and society hasn’t yet made enough room for children like mine to just be themselves in public. But the difference between now and a decade ago is that I no longer flinch or shrink when those looks come. I respond to him, out loud. I validate what he’s expressing. Sometimes, if he’s scripting a line from a song or show we both know, I’ll join in with him. We echo it together, joyfully. We turn it into connection. His vocal stims are a part of his identity, a part of his voice. And if other people don’t get it, that’s their lack of understanding, not his shortcoming.
So I started to learn. I paid attention to everything.. every squeal, every breath, every shift in tone and pitch, every change in volume, every script, every repetition. I tuned in like my life depended on it, but really, it was his life, his sense of safety, of being seen and understood that depended on it. The learning curve was steep and sometimes painful. There was so much trial and error. So many moments where I misread him and he would feel frustrated, rightfully so. But even in those moments, I could see in his eyes that he wanted me to get it. That he hadn’t given up on me.
And I didn’t give up either. I watched. I listened. I learned the nuances: the difference between a high-pitched squeal of joy and a similar one of distress; the subtle differences in eye movements that meant “yes” or “no” or “more” or “I’m done.” I began to notice what the silence meant, not just the absence of sound, but a whole spectrum of meaning: sometimes calm, sometimes protest, sometimes anticipation. The devil really is in the details.
One of the hardest parts of this journey was adjusting my mindset from parenting a highly articulate first child to parenting a child who doesn’t use spoken words as a standard form of communication. He will use words when he deems it necessary or when he’s frustrated enough to shout them out, but I don’t think it will never be his preferred method. And that’s ok.
I had to unlearn so much. I had to release the narrative that communication is only valid when it's verbal. I had to remind myself daily that just because I couldn't always understand him didn’t mean he wasn’t communicating. He knew exactly what he was saying. I was the one who needed to catch up.
And I think he saw that I was trying. Really trying. Because the truth is, he was teaching me far more than I was teaching him. He was teaching me patience, presence and the importance of observing without rushing to fix or translate or correct. He was teaching me that communication isn’t about words but about connection. And he was showing me, every single day, that he is whole, exactly as he is.
Now, O is ten. We’ve been learning each other’s ways for a decade and we’ve reached a place of deep mutual knowing. He knows I know. I know the meaning behind his soft sighs, his delighted squeals, his sudden stillness. I can tell when a sound means discomfort or excitement or curiosity. I know what his body is saying when it shifts or tenses or leans into me. I know when his eyes are saying “stay” and when they’re saying “give me space.” I know the difference between a protest and a plea. This fluency we’ve built together didn’t come from books or therapy sessions. It came from time, trust and love.
There are still moments I get it wrong. I’m human. Sometimes I’m distracted, or tired, or I misinterpret a cue. But the difference now is that he doesn’t get angry. He knows I’m trying. He trusts that I’ll keep paying attention. He knows I’ll come back and get it right. That trust means everything. It’s sacred.
I am his person. The one who gets him on a level that feels almost cellular. And the thought of not being here one day.. that thought undoes me. Because so few people truly understand his style because so few people take the time to really listen.
We have introduced an AAC device (augmentative and alternative communication device), however he doesn’t show much interest yet, because his ways make him very much understood. His array of skills are fit for purpose and he knows it. His confidence shines through.
My hope is that more people will take more time to really listen and tune in. That more people will come to see non-speaking communication not as a lack, but as a rich and meaningful expression of self. There is nothing “less than” about the way O communicates. It is not broken. It is not inferior. It is just different. And different can be powerful.
I’ve learned that communication is everywhere if we’re open to it. It’s in movement, in rhythm, in expression. It’s in the way a child looks at you, or places an object in your hand, or leans their head on your shoulder at just the right moment. It’s in the pauses. It’s in the quiet. And it’s in the fierce love that flows between a child and their parent, even when words are never spoken.
Raising O has changed me in all the best ways. He has made me softer, slower, more attentive. He’s taught me to listen with my whole being. To see beyond what’s expected or typical or easy. And he’s shown me a world of communication that is rich, textured and profoundly human.
This journey hasn’t always been easy. But it has been beautiful. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
To Parents of Non-Speaking Children: Gentle Reflections from One Journey
You’re not failing. If you don’t understand your child right away, that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It just means you’re still learning. Communication, in any form, takes time. Give yourself and your child that time.
Communication is more than speech. Don’t wait for words to see your child as a communicator. Start tuning in to their unique ways of expressing themselves now. What looks like a gesture or a sound might be the beginning of a whole conversation.
It’s okay to get it wrong. I did. You will. And your child might get upset. But trust can be built through repair, through coming back, trying again and showing them you’re committed to understanding.
Let them lead. Your child already knows how to communicate. Let them show you. Watch their patterns. Follow their cues. Be curious, not corrective.
Celebrate their receptive language. They might not speak, but they understand. Speak to them with the respect their intelligence deserves, even if you’re not sure how much they’re taking in. Always assume competence. They are listening.
Honour the stims. What might seem unusual to others could be joy, regulation, memory, humour. Join in if you're invited. Mirror them. Laugh with them. Stimming can be communication, connection, celebration.
You’re not alone. There’s no single right way to do this. But there is a growing community of parents, professionals and neurodivergent people who honour non-speaking communication. You can find your people.
Trust in the beauty of your connection. Words or no words, the bond between you and your child is real. It’s valid. And it’s enough.
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This is such an important piece. Your connection with your child is explored in an incredibly moving and powerful way. Thank you for sharing your story. I was particularly moved by how you describe your process of unlearning all you thought you knew. One that only some parents can understand ♥️