What is my child actually showing me?
When something feels off, it's not confusion — it's the beginning of understanding your child. You notice it in small moments first. Not something dramatic. Not something you can easily explain.
There are many people who will look at your child. Professionals. Specialists. Therapists. Family members. They observe. They assess. They form opinions. And their role matters.
You watch your child. Closely. You start noticing patterns. Reactions. Behaviors. Things that repeat. Things that stand out. And naturally, you begin to attach meaning to them.
He covers his ears every time you turn on the vacuum. You assume it's the noise. And it helps. A little. But not enough.
For months, I was told to sing to him. Sing during play. Sing during routines. Sing while dressing him. Use more language. More interaction. More engagement. So I did. And nothing happened.
For a long time, I wanted my son to look at me. To notice me. To respond when I called his name. To share something — a glance, a smile, a moment.
You try something. It seems to help. You try it again. And somewhere in the repetition, a question appears that nobody really prepares you for.
Progress arrives quietly. And then it just sits there. Waiting for you to do something with it.
There is a space that nobody prepares you for. Between the moment you know something is different and the moment someone gives it a name. It can last weeks. Sometimes months. Sometimes years.
It comes with a lot of words. A report. A meeting. Someone across a table explaining what it means and what happens next. And somewhere inside all of that, two things happen simultaneously.