When you’re told that your child might be non-verbal, it’s like being told that your house is on fire. It becomes the main concern above everything else. When experts ask what they should work on, it feels like a ridiculous question.

It’s as insane as having the fire department show up to your home, engulfed in flames, and ask you what you’re hoping they can do to help. You stand there, surrounded by smoke, and say, “Uh, put out the fire.”

To this, they say, “Yeah. OK. Maybe we can do that over time. But what else do you want? Can we help paint the den?”

What? How insane is that? My house is on fire. Put it out. How can you ask about anything else? What is wrong with you?

While the example sounds insane, it’s incredibly relevant. In the weeks, months, and years since Lucas’s language became an issue, that’s what happened with teachers and therapists.

What would you like us to work on?

Uh, getting him to talk.

But is there anything else?

Get him to say words.

That’s the same thing.

Oh…uh, language?

Still, same thing…

It drove me crazy. How could we deal with any other issue when the main issue is one that everyone shrugs off? In my mind, Lucas couldn’t reach any of his goals without words. All of these other things meant nothing without some vocalization.

Those initial times were difficult. Every day and year that passed without my son ever saying his first words were painful. It was like watching someone you love struggle and feeling helpless to do anything about it.

Even speech teachers didn’t help. For a new parent to a special needs child, having a speech therapist ask what you want them to work on, when your child is non-verbal, sounds nuts. It still kind of does.

The worst part about this mentality was that it felt as though my boy was making no progress at all. After all, when your only milestone is language, it feels like a failure when it never comes. To be so hyper-focused on one major goal is to set yourself up for disappointment.

That’s when one of his therapists suggested something to me that really changed my approach to special needs parenting. She said:

Take notes on what he does right now. Write them down, remember them, or whatever you need to do. Then, in six months, look at what he does then and compare them. See the difference.

It was a long-term parlor trick, but I was willing to give it a try. Amazingly enough, it was the best thing we could have ever done.

I started to notice things that I never noticed before. Suddenly, I could see how he could walk the stairs more easily than he used to. He was increasingly interactive with all of us in the family and more engaged in reading bedtime stories. When I gave him a bowl of Pirate Booty, he gingerly carried it to the couch without spilling one piece. Six months earlier, he would have sent it flying everywhere.

There was a difference. There was advancement. He was reaching goals that I didn’t even realize were goals.

They had been happening the whole time, but I never noticed. I didn’t see these specific advancements because I wasn’t looking for them. Rather, I was chasing the dragon of language and missing out on all the achievements he had been making along the way.

The fire department analogy I made at the beginning was good, right? It was so perfect and so silly that you can’t help but read it and think, “Of course, you’re only concerned about language. Anything else would be like ignoring the biggest elephant in the room.”

Sure, it makes sense, but it’s not the perfect analogy. The perfect analogy would be hoping you become a billionaire. Every passing day is spent focused on making your first billion. You feel like a failure with each calendar year. Along the way, you never even notice that you’re making millions of dollars every month. Everything short of the billion is a terrible tragedy.

The strides that my boy has made in his twelve years on this Earth are incredible. Lucas works harder than anyone I know and the milestones that he has reached were milestones I never dreamed he would. There were a lot of things I never dreamed of.

I didn’t think my son would ever know me or love me. The hope of communication felt like a far-off dream. When you have a baby facing pronounced special needs, the fear is that you’ll have no place in their life. They’ll never see you as family or even know what family is. They’ll be emotionally locked away forever.

Today, I can confidently say that Lucas knows my place in his life. He understands who I am and what I mean to him. He doesn’t tell me through the words that never arrived. He tells me through his expressions, devices, and actions. Like most of our communication, he shows love non-verbally.

If I had been waiting for language and language only, I would have missed out on some of the most important moments of his life. I’m proud of him every day. Our home might still be smoky and the billions are just out of reach, but we’re rolling in millions in our freshly painted den and couldn’t be happier.