My son, Oliver, is the light of my life. He came into this world with a rare medical condition that prevents him from speaking. In many ways, he is like any other child—full of life, curiosity, and love—but he experiences the world through a unique lens, one shaped by silence. Oliver’s inability to speak does not define him, but it has shaped the way we communicate, the way we understand each other, and the way we navigate the world as a family.
At first, I won’t lie, the silence was deafening. When we first learned that Oliver wouldn’t be able to speak, I felt an overwhelming sense of loss, not for myself, but for him. I wondered how he would navigate the world, how he would express his thoughts, his emotions, his desires. How would he tell us when he was scared, when he was happy, when something was wrong? Would we ever truly understand him?
But Oliver taught me something that I could never have learned from any book or therapist—he showed me that communication doesn’t have to rely solely on words. His world is one of expression, but it’s one that speaks in subtle, yet profound ways. Though he can’t speak aloud, his heart speaks loudly through his art, through his gestures, and even through the little notes he leaves behind. He communicates in ways that words could never fully capture, and in many ways, I find that his silence speaks more than words ever could.
His drawings are his language. A simple crayon sketch of a sun, with two stick figures holding hands, speaks volumes about his need for connection, his love of warmth and companionship. When he draws a picture of our family, I can feel the joy and security he finds in our bond. Sometimes, he leaves me notes—small, handwritten messages on scraps of paper, often just a scribbled “I love you” or a picture of a heart. It’s as if he’s reminding me, without uttering a sound, that love doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt.
One of the most powerful moments in our lives happened when he came home from school one afternoon, carrying a crumpled piece of paper. It was a drawing, but unlike the others, it was filled with dark shapes, swirling in chaotic patterns. There were jagged lines, sharp angles—nothing like the calm, warm images he usually created. I could tell he was upset. I asked him, using the sign language we had been learning together, what was wrong. He pointed to the drawing and then mimed a sad face, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. It wasn’t a grand display, no shouting or tears, but his silent message spoke to me in a way that words never could.
That moment was a silent warning. A warning that something had happened at school that had shaken him, something that was beyond his ability to process fully. It was a sign that he was struggling, a cry for help that didn’t need to be loud to be urgent. We worked together to understand the source of his distress, and slowly, the darkness in his drawing lifted as we navigated through the situation. It reminded me that Oliver’s silence wasn’t an absence—it was a presence in and of itself, one that demanded attention, care, and patience.
Through Oliver, I’ve learned that silence is not emptiness. His silence holds meaning, depth, and richness. He’s shown me that even without words, there’s an entire language of love, pain, joy, and fear. It’s in the way he looks at me when he needs comfort, the way he squeezes my hand when he’s scared, and the way his eyes light up when something excites him. His expression is raw, pure, and honest—everything he cannot say, he shows through his being.
The world may view Oliver’s silence as a challenge, but I see it as a gift. He’s taught me to listen more deeply, not just with my ears, but with my heart. He’s helped me to see that sometimes the most profound communication happens when we stop talking and start paying attention to what is not said. I don’t need him to speak to know exactly what he’s feeling. His presence, his actions, and his expressions say it all.
Oliver is a silent warning, in the best way possible. His quiet presence is a reminder that communication is about understanding, not just speaking. And in his silence, I’ve found a deeper connection than I ever could have imagined.
