Tenishia Vanderpool

Yesterday, my son — the one who has been described as “nonverbal,” who has been navigating his world through sounds, gestures, and the quiet language of presence… he found his words.

Not forced.
Not prompted.
He just started talking.

And man… the pride on his face when he realized he spoke his mind and we understood!
We were having a whole conversation.
A real one.
A real and meaningful conversation.

It’s been a long time coming. These last couple of months, we’ve worked to truly get to know our son — learning his routines, learning what deviation looks like for him, trying to understand his rhythm… his brain… his world.

We’ve been intentional about honoring the way he communicates without words — which sometimes means we’re grasping at straws, hoping that even on the heavy days, when meltdowns are meltdowns and overstimulation takes over, something beneath the surface is beginning to connect.

For months, we’ve been tending his soil, waiting for seeds to take root…

And then yesterday, the cutest little sprout appeared.

The cutest little voice.

And the way he held eye contact with us with each word he spoke — it was as if he was saying:

“This is real, Mom. Dad. I’m doing this.”

You may be thinking, Tenishia, you’ve mentioned before that he’s spoken. What makes this different?

The night before, we were trying to get him to sleep, and my husband said,
“Son, it’s time to get ready for bed. You have school tomorrow.”

He looked directly at him and said, “No.”

After a little back and forth — yes, no, yes, no — he finally said:

“No. School’s yucky. Home’s happy.”

My husband and I were SPEECHLESS.
Quite literally.
We just stared at each other, trying to pick our jaws up off the floor.
He didn’t just throw out a random word — he spoke clearly, intentionally, and with meaning.

Fast forward to the next morning… he slept.
He slept straight through school drop-off and stayed home. It didn’t fully hit me until later, on my way to work, just how clearly he communicated with us. That boy knew the night before that he wasn’t going to school. He told us. More than once.

So. If you’re in a season where growth feels quiet or invisible, I hope this reminds you that so much can be happening beneath the surface long before you ever see it. Our children bloom in their own time, in their own way, and in their own rhythm and with intention.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring or how quickly his language will continue to unfold, but today… I’m just grateful.

Grateful for his voice.
Grateful for every tiny breakthrough.