When my son first showed signs of developmental delays, I blamed myself entirely. To me, his lack of speech had to be my own doing. I thought that his inability to speak was because I sang or talked silly to him too much. Even though he was just a baby, I believed I needed to be more clear in my diction. Then he would surely talk.

After all, that’s what I did with his sister…or at least I thought. She spoke at all the milestone markers while he struggled. There had to be a reason, and I had to be that reason.

If it was something I, as his parent, was doing wrong, then it was something that I, as his parent, could “fix.” All his delays would be solved if I just changed my own behavior. This was all on me.

Someone reading this now or hearing about it back then would likely react with a sympathetic expression and a deep sigh. “Oh, poor father. You feel guilt, but this is about who your child is and what they’re capable of in the moment. It’s not something you did wrong.” And I get that now, Most of us do. This entire train of thought sounds like Denial 101.

But at the time, it felt completely real. None of that thought process had anything to do with self-pity or delusion. It was legitimate. I thought I had come to an epiphany. I was the cause of all my son’s troubles, and he just needed a better dad. So I set out to be that.

Yet, here we are, over a decade later, and my son still hasn’t spoken. He has many developmental delays, including being non-verbal, that have persisted and will continue throughout his life. There are skills he struggles with and goals we haven’t reached. That’s still happening.

Why? Because, as we know now, it was more about Lucas than it ever was about me. My son sees the world in a way that no one else does. Even other children on the spectrum don’t see it through his eyes. He’s unique in a world of carbon copies. No one is like Lucas, and I love him for it.

So, was it a waste of time to push harder all those years ago? After all, I tried so hard to get words from him and advance other skills, but I fell short. Was it a failure?

No. My efforts to help my son weren’t failures because he’s made incredible progress across the board. He might not speak, but we communicate better than I do with most others. He’s learned to trust and understand me. That connection came through my attempts to teach him language.

Lucas would always hound me for food. That was his thing, and in many ways, it still is. He’ll come tapping and try to lead you to the cupboard, his way of asking for something to eat. When it came to mealtimes, though, I needed time to cook. Whether pizza or nuggets, he’d freak out if more than ten seconds passed between the request and the food being served. I would get insanely frustrated by his inability to understand.

Trying to get him to grasp the concept, I’d repeat, “It has to cook!” I’d say it louder and slower, like a frustrated tourist trying to communicate in a foreign language. He didn’t get it, and it drove me nuts. I’d bring him to the oven to see the food cooking and say, “It’s cooking!” I’d show him the clock, put my hand up with a firm “wait.” It was a whole show, born out of agitation.

Now, years later, things are quite different. Lucas will come to me for dinner, and I’ll take out a frozen pizza, put it on a pan, and slide it into the oven. Then I’ll turn to him and say, “OK. I’ll cook the pizza. Go downstairs and play, and I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

And he does.

Don’t get me wrong—sometimes he still insists on seeing it bake. Other times, he’ll return repeatedly to check on it. But overall, he gets it. He understands it. It’s become a crucial piece of his receptive language and a key skill for him as he navigates the world without verbal language.

That doesn’t feel like a failure at all. In fact, it’s exactly what I was trying to accomplish in the first place. After all, verbal language was seen as a means to communicate and understand. That’s what he’s learned, and that’s what we have. He never had to say a word to achieve it.

My son is non-verbal with autism. It affects his life in many ways. Some ways are beautiful, while others present challenges. But regardless, all of that is him. It’s not something for a parent to “fix” or change. It’s a part of who my boy is.

As his dad, my job is to help him reach his full potential. What does that look like? I’m not sure yet. We’re figuring it out every day. But I can tell you this much – we’ve already come far beyond what I once thought was possible. The sky’s the limit.