Many people still ask me,

“How does your son communicate if he is nonspeaking?”

For me, the answer is both simple and complex.

My son, Arthur, is a multimodal, creative communicator.

Some days, communication feels more accessible—when I slow down and listen beyond words, beyond sound, beyond my ears.

Some days, it requires me to “read his mind,” which can be hard and exhausting. I say that honestly and without shame, because caregiving and deep listening take real emotional labour.

An AAC device is not Arthur’s preferred or main way of communicating right now.

And that is okay.

Last year, I didn’t feel like putting up a Christmas tree or a crib at home.

But Arthur noticed.

He saw Christmas trees at his father’s office.

At his cousin’s house.

At a New Year’s Eve party we attended.

At that party, Arthur looked emotional as he stood near the Christmas tree. My sister and I noticed it, though we didn’t immediately understand what had stirred something inside him.

The next day—New Year’s Day—Arthur took my phone, opened the photo gallery, scrolled with intention, and went straight to pictures of last year’s (2024) Christmas tree and crib at our home. He looked at them quietly for a while.

This was the second time he had done this. The first was after visiting his cousin’s birthday on December 26th.

This time, something shifted in me.

I felt that he was communicating—perhaps asking a question, perhaps sharing a feeling:

Why didn’t we put it up this year?

I miss it.

I noticed its absence.

Arthur noticed that something important was missing at home:

Our Christmas tree and the crib.

No spoken words.

But a clear message—shared through memory, images, emotion, attention, and presence.

I acknowledged his communication. I honoured it, and I assured him that we would put it up again next year.

His communication mattered, even without words.

Arthur didn’t need words to tell me something important. He used memory, pictures, emotion, attention, and shared presence.

Moments like these remind me that communication is not limited to speech—or even to tools designed specifically for communication.

It lives in noticing, in shared meaning, and in the willingness to truly listen.

And sometimes, the most important communication doesn’t ask to be translated—only to be noticed.

Reflection

Communication is fluid.

It doesn’t follow a straight path, a fixed timeline, or a hierarchy of “better” or “worse” ways to communicate. How a person communicates can shift moment to moment, day to day, and across different environments.

Needs change.

What someone needs to communicate in one moment—comfort, reassurance, information—may be very different in another moment, such as curiosity, connection, or regulation. The purpose of communication is not constant.

Readiness changes.

Readiness isn’t about ability; it’s about capacity. Energy levels, sensory load, trust, familiarity, and safety all influence how—and whether—someone communicates in a particular moment.

Emotions change.

Emotions shape communication profoundly. Joy, grief, curiosity, overwhelm, or uncertainty all influence how communication shows up, and which form feels most supportive at that moment.

Taken together, this means that no single form of communication fits every moment. Gestures, silence, movement, visuals, eye gaze, shared attention, and AAC device may each rise or fall depending on the situation.

When we honor this fluidity, we stop treating communication as a performance to be measured and begin treating it as a relationship to be supported.

Access stays constant.

Expectations stay flexible.

Autonomy stays central.

That is what it means to truly listen.

When we honor all forms of communication—gestures, actions, emotions, silence, AAC device, communication board, letter board, visuals, shared attention—we send a powerful message:

You are already communicating.

You are already competent.

Your voice matters, even when it doesn’t sound the way the world expects it to.

Listening beyond words taught me how my son communicates.

Access with autonomy taught me why choice matters.

In the next post, I share why AAC in our home is not a requirement or a goal—but an invitation. An open door. A right that stays available, whether it’s used today, tomorrow, or many years later.