Growth in Everyday Moments
Almost every day, Lisha and I go on long walks together. These walks have become more than just physical activity—they’re a moving classroom, a quiet place of connection, and a space for language to bloom. I sign to her as we walk, and we listen to music, which I also sign along with. Music has a special rhythm that seems to soothe her.
We also listen to at least one science podcast a day. I don’t know if it’s the rhythm of the voices, the tone, or the words themselves, but she enjoys it. And even if she doesn’t show it in typical ways, I know she’s absorbing more than she lets on.
She loves the colored pencils I bring with me each day. Often, her coloring looks like scribbles—but once, she created something incredible: a drawing of grass, the sun, clouds, and rain. It was a masterpiece in its own right. I saw something in that drawing—a spark of creativity, a story she was telling on her own terms.
Sometimes, I read to her. She tends to pick the same book again and again—and that's ok. Repetition brings comfort and familiarity. Lately, we’ve even added more imaginative play into our days: checking her brown bear’s heartbeat with a toy stethoscope, or pretending to make food with her plastic pots and spatulas. These little moments are big steps for her.
The progress in her communication has been nothing short of extraordinary. When we first started, she would just point at what she wanted—no signs. Now, when she does that, all it takes is a gentle reminder:
“Use your signs.”
And she does. About 80% of the time now, she responds with a sign. That’s a massive change.
I’ve had to get creative with emotional regulation too. Early on, I would sign “R-B-C”—Relax. Breathe. Be Calm.—again and again. It worked… for a while. (It’s mostly for us adults now, honestly.) These days, silly high-pitched voices can distract her during dysregulated moments. Sometimes it’s music, sometimes it’s hand squeezes, or sometimes it’s just me—being a calm, steady presence beside her when she’s having a hard time.
And then there are the magic moments—the breakthroughs that stop me in my tracks. Like when she suddenly signs full sentences. Or when she answers a question I wasn’t even sure she understood. Or when a word I hadn’t used in weeks suddenly appears in her signing, like it had been waiting quietly in her mind, ready to bloom.
Her growth is not linear—but it is undeniable.