Words are overrated. As the parent to a non-verbal son, I’ve learned that lesson slowly over the past decade.

When I first found out that Lucas might not speak, it felt like the end of the world. To me, the absence of language meant an absence of communication, understanding, and relationship-building. Speaking through hand motions or devices could never equal the natural flow of using verbal language.

Then, I started to notice that wasn’t the case. Sure, things would be much easier if Lucas could simply say what he wants, but there are also subtle things with language that alter how we deal with one another. Unintended meanings, accidental offenses, or phrases push people away and cloud context in ways that pressing “I Want Pizza” on a device doesn’t.

Ironically, one of the most highly debated wars of words is the one surrounding how we describe autism itself. While some say a person is “autistic”, I do not. As I have explained before, Lucas is “my child with autism” because he is “my son” first, before anything.

I know. I know. It’s semantics and not truly needed, but it’s just something I do. That said, I don’t insist on or judge anyone else for saying “autistic”. At the end of the day, it’s just words and we all perceive them differently.

The same can be said for “disability” or “handicapped.” Personally, I don’t use those words either. Unless I am trying to adequately explain the depth of our situation to an outsider with no idea of our family, I never refer to Lucas as either. Again, they’re just words…but, for the outside world, they’re not.

That’s the reason I spent so long without ever getting a handicapped placard for our car that allows us to park in spaces closer to businesses. I always knew their value for those who may need it.

None of that affected me, though, as I didn’t have a handicapped member of my family. I had a child with “severe autism” (another verbal phrase that can hit different people in different ways). But not a handicapped son. Handicapped placards weren’t for people like us.

These designated parking signs were for those with physical handicaps. I mean, there’s literally a white stick-figure person in a stick-figure wheelchair on it.

There wasn’t a stick figure boy clapping on his iPad. If there was, I would have been first in line. No. Handicapped stickers were for handicapped people, not my non-verbal son with autism. To think otherwise, in my mind, was silly.

In fact, he was so opposite of the wheelchair kid. My kid didn’t just walk. He’d run. Constantly.

Yeah, my little guy would literally dart through a parking lot without warning. He was fast. Circling parked cars and speeding drivers, Lucas would escape his own demise regularly. Ah. The adorable and terrifying days of his youth.

Back then, the fear of losing him to a distracted driver trying to find a spot always worried me. A walk from the spot to the store was spent keeping him gripped tightly.

Dangerous? Sure. I knew it, but figured that was just life. I had to deal with it. A lot of those days were spent in blind acceptance. I had new responsibilities and this was one.

He runs, but he’s not handicapped. We don’t need a closer spot. Would it be helpful and possibly save his life? Absolutely. But that’s not for us. That’s for someone handicapped. That’s for someone who can’t physically walk from their car to the building.

Well, actually, sometimes that was my son. We had many moments where he couldn’t go from the car to the building. During times of exhaustion or sensory overload, Lucas would lay down on the ground or in the street and refuse to move.

To say it was horrific for me as a parent would be an understatement. Out of nowhere, he would simply stop walking and sit. It didn’t matter how many cars were speeding by or if the light was about to change. When he didn’t want to walk, he wouldn’t.

Still, we don’t need it. Lucas was tiny and I’m a man’s man, as the men say. I’d scoop him up and carry him in. Even fighting and kicking, he was small and easy to maneuver. He’s my little guy.

Of course, kids grow. Soon, my little guy was becoming a giant guy. Carting him from the pavement into Target was growing in difficulty with each passing month. Balancing bags and belongings in one arm while trying to lift a giant boy nearly my weight into a store was ridiculous. I started to see the issue. I started to realize something.

We needed a handicap sticker.

Anyone who saw me during one of these insane Weekend At Bernie’s-style entrances into the Stop & Shop knew that we desperately needed one of the parking placards. I’m sure plenty of observers must have wondered what was wrong with me from afar.

The answer? Words. I was caught up in the words. My son wasn’t handicapped in my eyes. But in the eyes of those who assigned handicapped stickers, he was.

And they were right.

And that’s where words get the worst of us sometimes. An obvious situation that calls for an obvious solution can remain unchecked until you can get past your own linguistic hangups. Just because I negatively view the word doesn’t mean it’s negative in every context. Sometimes it’s appropriate. Sometimes it’s crucial. By not acknowledging that it not only inconveniences us but puts us in danger.

Today, we have one of those little hanging things for the rearview mirror. I forget about it all the time and only use it when Lucas is with us. It’s been a true game-changer for him.

Words can be confusing, but we live in a world that uses them. When it comes to labeling and categorizing people, it can be difficult to use them in some ways. It is, however, important. Doing what’s best for my family depends on seeing past personal preferences and hangups to accept that.

In the end, while words like ‘non-verbal’ and ‘handicapped’ might carry different connotations, as a parent, my priority is to look beyond labels and do what’s necessary for Lucas’s well-being. Whether it’s embracing a handicapped placard or finding new ways to communicate, I’m reminded that in parenting, actions often speak louder than words.