Breaking The Silence

Three years ago, after Asaf completed school at 21, I was lost. What now? School had been an incubator, a safe framework that provided structure, routine, and community for Asaf. The question of what came next consumed me day and night. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, gripped with fear, the weight of making this decision pressing down on me like a physical burden.

We explored every option: visiting various hostels, assessing day care centers, and considering what staying home might mean. None of the hostels seemed right for him. The day care options didn’t meet his needs, and if he stayed home, what would fill his afternoons? He needed to be among his equals, peers similar to himself, a community where he could thrive. The search felt endless and agonizing.

Eventually, we found a hostel that seemed like a viable option and that was only the beginning of a new kind of agony:

How could I move him out of my home?How could they possibly take care of him the way I do?Would they see him, really see him, the way I do?Would they understand his gestures?Would they interpret the noises he makes and recognize what they mean? How would they know when he needs to use the bathroom?How could I trust someone else to take care of my son?

And then came the hardest questions of all: Why can’t I continue to take care of him myself? What does it say about me if I can’t? What sort of mother am I if I even consider this? These questions didn’t just keep me up at night, they tore me apart. They made me question everything I thought I knew about being a mother, about being his mother. The doubt and guilt were overwhelming, and the decision felt impossible.

I was bursting into tears so frequently that my roommate at work actually suggested I take time off until I’d made my decision. My response was blunt: either ignore me or get used to my tears.

Eventually, we decided to move Asaf into the hostel, reassured by the fact that he seemed to really like the place during our visits. The beginning was great. He thrived. I received pictures of him grinning from ear to ear. For a while, I thought we’d made the right choice.

But six months in things began to change. Subtle at first; he started losing weight, then came stomach issues that the doctors couldn’t diagnose. Numerous hospitalizations brought no answers, and I was becoming desperate. It was only after a top gastroenterologist suggested the issue might be psychological that, in a last-ditch attempt to find answers, we decided to try typing again. I found a facilitator willing to work with him in the hostel. To say I was nervous was an understatement.

Would he be able to sit still? Would he be able to communicate through typing? Should I attend the first session? Would my presence distract him? Naama, the facilitator, assured me when she said’ “Trust me” and I did.

After the session, I was very surprised to receive a video of Asaf sitting patiently, typing words he’d chosen himself. I was cautiously hopeful, filled with nervous excitement. By the time his second lesson came around, I could hardly wait to receive the file. This is the way the lesson worked: Naama typed everything she said into a shared document, while Asaf typed his responses directly into the same file. After the session the file is sent to the parents.

That morning, as they say in Yiddish, I was on shpilkies — pins and needles — waiting for the file to land in my inbox. When it finally arrived, I opened it with bated breath, barely able to contain myself.

And there it was: the first clear sentence my son had ever written.

“I don’t visit home. I’m afraid they are going to forget me.”

In that instant, all the air was sucked out of my lungs. My son, my Asaf, had written an entire sentence — and this was what he chose to say? I was shattered, devastated and yet absolutely overjoyed. My son could communicate. He was capable of expressing himself.

I’ve never felt so many emotions all at once, with such force and intensity:

• Amazement and disbelief: Asaf can communicate.

• Skepticism: Is this real or is she typing for him?

• Panic and sorrow: He’s miserable and afraid, how could I not have known?

• Elation: Asaf has a voice. He can finally tell me how he feels.

• Fear: What if this is a one-time breakthrough? What if the window of communication closes again?

• Guilt: That he feels abandoned.

• Relief and gratitude: Finally, he has a way to share his inner world.

I didn’t know it was possible to feel so many emotions at once. I was drowning in them, unable to process the enormity of what had just happened. It was a tidal wave of hope and heartbreak, joy and despair, all hitting me at once. How could I even begin to untangle it all?

Since that day, my life has changed in ways I never could have imagined. Asaf’s ability to communicate has not only shattered so many of my previous assumptions but also opened a door to understanding his world which included his fears, his joys, his thoughts, and his dreams. It’s a connection I had longed for but never truly believed could happen.

His words, though at times painful to read, have been a gift. They’ve challenged me to confront my own guilt and doubts, and to acknowledge that while I haven’t always gotten everything right, I’ve done my best. And more importantly, they’ve reminded me that Asaf has always been there, taking in everything, observing, understanding, and waiting for his moment to share his truth.

This journey is far from over, in fact in so many ways it’s only just beginning. There are still moments of doubt, fear, and overwhelm but there are many moments of awe and gratitude. The process of presuming competence has reshaped how I see Asaf, myself and others. It’s taught me that we often underestimate the people around us — not because they lack ability, but because we don’t give them the appropriate tools or opportunities to show what they can do.

Asaf’s words remind me every day that even when communication seems impossible, connection is not. For that I am profoundly grateful.

If there’s one thing I want anyone reading this to take away, it’s this:

Never stop believing in the people you love. Assume they understand. Assume they’re capable. Assume their voices are waiting to be heard. When those voices finally emerge, they will change everything.