One of the earliest challenges when I became a parent to a non-verbal child with autism was understanding what that exactly meant. No one could tell you and nothing seemed to fit into a handbook.

When people hear that Lucas is non-verbal, they usually ask if he speaks any words. While my son doesn’t verbalize at all, the question itself is indicative of the fact that in some cases, non-verbal children do have some words that they say.

It’s just one of many unexpected twists that come with knowing your kid may face a different path in life. All I wanted to do was help him along his journey, yet no one could define what the journey would look like.

Experts shrugged and doctors offered no help. They’d say things like “anything can happen” and “some kids eventually talk.”

In the absence of genuine advice, a parent is left to paint the mental picture on their own. That’s what I had to do; frankly, it was bleak.

In my defense, what else could it be? Everything I was told about autism sounded painful. Treated as something to be feared, having a kid on the spectrum seemed like the end result of something I must have done wrong. It was always presented in a bad way.

Because of that, our current situation would be seen as a worst-case scenario. That’s how people around me would have seen it. Heck, that’s how I would have seen it if I was able to look into the future. All the things I worried about came true. All the things I dreaded came to pass.

And, somehow, we’re better than fine. We’re perfect.

My boy is amazing and I’ve made no bones about that fact. He doesn’t need words or conventional ways of dealing with the world to be a valued member of our family. Lucas is himself and the ways he sees the world fill me with joy and happiness. No one lives life to the extent that he does. No one embraces the things they love like him.

Part of the bleak outlook involved the thought that I would spend my life talking to someone who was never listening. It was a challenge from the start. It’s also a challenge I happily accepted.

I talk to my non-verbal child more than I talk to anyone else on Earth. From car rides to dinner conversations, Lucas hears everything. If you’ve ever done me wrong, I’ve told him about it. If you post something dumb on Facebook, I show him. Sometimes he doesn’t look, but I still hold my phone up for him to see.

I’ve gotten used to it and he has too. There’s nowhere we go and nothing we do that doesn’t have a conversation beforehand. I tell him our plans and I go into detail about everything in my life. It’s a one-way dialogue that he usually doesn’t respond to.

Don’t get me wrong. He gives me smiles and, when I want to accentuate a point, I’ll tickle him. We laugh together and I’ll say something like, “You get it, pal.”

Some words get an immediate reaction, though. “Pirate Booty”, “quesadilla”, and “pizza” receive some pretty substantial attention from my round little guy. Of course, food is a huge communication thing in our house and his talking device is almost exclusively a menu for him.

It’s the other things that can fall to the wayside and always require exaggerated pronunciation to get him to notice. Telling him we have to go somewhere comes with Hulk Hogan-like levels of pantomime. It’s enough movement to get the folks in the last row to understand, brother.

Lucas. WE (point to us both) have to GO (point to the door) in the CAR (steering wheel motion). Just WAIT (hand up) and we’ll EAT (hand to mouth) AFTER (rainbow motion).

It’s a lot to do, but it’s how we make sure we’re communicating. He’ll usually tap me or give me a look of acceptance before running off with his cup dangling from his mouth by the straw.

Repetition, however, is key. Having spoken so much to him for so long, there have been times that show me I’m doing the right thing and realize that constant talk makes a difference.

A few months ago, I was getting my boy ready for school. It was early. I was tired and barely speaking above a mumble. I needed coffee.

K, bud. We’re almost done. We gotta get shoes on and, well first, we have to wash your hands. Then shoes. Then, I don’t know. Daddy’s tired. You’re killing me, kid.

He ran from his room and I waited a second before following. I knew what was next. I would have to catch him at the stairs and make him double back to the bathroom. It happens all the time.

It didn’t happen this time. When I came out of his room, my son was standing at the bathroom sink with water running over his hands. He looked back at me over his shoulder as if to say, “I’m on it.”

And it blew me away.

To this day, it still blows me away. This wasn’t something I expected or even worked directly with him about. Rather, it was Lucas showing me that the time we put in had paid off.

I didn’t need to speak slowly or firmly. I simply said it and he picked it up. Does it happen every time? No. But it happened that time and I know if I keep doing it, it will happen again.

This moment at the bathroom sink wasn’t just a one-off. It was a testament to the accumulative power of our countless interactions. Every chat, every ride, every detailed explanation of our daily life has been a brick in the foundation of his understanding. It proves that our words, even when seemingly unacknowledged, are absorbed, shaping Lucas’s ability to navigate the world around him.

And as long as he’s listening, I’ll keep speaking—because this journey, filled with its silent victories and unspoken understandings, is the most meaningful conversation of my life.