Last night, Asaf and I went for a walk. As always, it wasn't really a walk. Every few steps he stopped to move a leaf or kick aside a stone. If I'm honest, it can still be really frustrating. Every walk takes far longer than it should. Then I remind myself of something. Is this really a walk or is it quality time with Asaf? The moment I choose to see it as time with him, something shifts. I stop worrying about how quickly we're moving and start enjoying simply being together.

There are some stories that feel almost too personal to tell. The kind you wonder whether you should share at all. This is one of them. Before publishing this blog, I read it to Asaf and asked his permission. This is his story as much as it is mine. He thought for a moment before typing: "I want to contribute to other people. I am alive today to keep trying, developing and growing, so that others can learn from my experience and my journey." That was all the permission I need

Asaf wearing the teeshirt i designed for him for his birthday. Twenty-six years ago I became a mother. Little did I know what that title would come to mean, or the journey that lay ahead. For many years Asaf's birthdays were emotionally complicated. On the one hand, I wanted him to be happy. I wanted to celebrate him. But I never really knew what would make him happy because he couldn't tell me. On the other hand, every birthday was a reminder of everything we thought he was

This week, after Asaf celebrated his 26th birthday, I sent a short video to Tami, the therapist who worked with us during the early days of communication through typing. A few minutes later, she sent me a message. "I remember Asaf's 20th birthday. You told me then that you didn't think he knew how old he was." I read her message and stopped. I don't remember saying it. But I have no doubt that I did. And I know exactly why. For more than twenty years, I was told that Asaf und

We often recognise friendship through behaviour. Two people laughing together. A hug. A shared joke. Friends chatting over coffee. An invitation to a birthday party. These are the things that tell us two people care about each other. But what happens when behaviour is the least reliable thing we have? What happens when you can't speak? What happens when you have apraxia, a disconnect between mind and body, where you desperately want to reach out and greet someone, but your bo

Our Reunion When Asaf was four years old, he was diagnosed with autism and mental retardation. I hate those words. I hated them then, and I am deeply grateful they have been replaced. But at the time, that was the diagnosis I was given, and I absorbed it fully. I was told he would never advance beyond the cognitive functioning of a four year old. And I believed it. I didn't question it. I didn't challenge it. I didn't imagine anything else was possible. I adjusted my expectat

Sunrise over Gilad Mountains in Jordan Today I stood in front of my friend’s cupboard. Everything was folded perfectly. Neat. Calm. In order. And instantly, in my mind, I saw my own cupboard. Clothes pushed in. Overflowing. Messy. And in that moment, I felt it again. That familiar feeling. The feeling of failure. Why can’t I be like that? Why can’t I keep my cupboards tidy? What’s wrong with me? I’ve always wanted a tidy home. Order. Systems. Calm. But even something as simpl

Some people can talk endlessly and still not really say anything. And then there’s Asaf. He took two full years of his life and turned them into 22 words. (written in hebrew.. the translation comes out at 33) 22 words. How many people can actually do that? I want to be clear about something. Asaf doesn’t just sit and type the way we do. He can only communicate through typing with an experienced therapist, in a very specific space that was built over time. It’s not always acce

Two years ago my world quietly split into a before, and an after. The moment came in a simple sentence, typed slowly, letter by letter: “I want you to know that I’m smart in my head.” Those words did not just reach me. They rearranged me. For years I loved my son fiercely. I watched him, protected him, tried to understand him through movements, sounds, gestures, and patterns. I believed I knew him. I learned to interpret his body like a language. A look meant this. A movement

Purim has never really been a big thing in our family. Three out of my five children refused to go to school on Purim; not once or twice, every year. They just hated it. The noise, the costumes, the chaos. Asaf had no choice; he had to go to school and the last child just tolerated it. I was never one of those parents who spends weeks designing the perfect costume. In our house, Purim was something we mostly got through. This year was the first time I had the opportunity to a

An ordinary evening at home. Asaf gets up to make himself chocolate milk. Such a small thing. So ordinary. The kind of thing most people do without thinking, finishing the task in under a minute. But with Asaf, chocolate milk is never just chocolate milk. And it is never a one-minute story. He starts beautifully. He opens the chocolate powder. Scoops one spoonful into the cup. He walks to the fridge and takes out the milk. And then - the cap. He tries to grip it. That alone i

Often, when we are in the midst of life, it is almost impossible to stop and see how far we have come. We are busy surviving, managing, adapting, holding things together. Progress happens quietly, in between the chaos, and only later asks to be noticed. Last week, we are celebrated a year since Asaf returned home. One year of shared space, shared time, and shared learning. A year that asks me to stop, to look back, and to really see what has grown. In him, and in me. January

Ask parents of a child with special needs what their biggest fear is, and many will give you the same answer: What will happen to my child when I am no longer here? We talk about services, housing, independence, inclusion. We make plans, spreadsheets, trusts, and lists. We tell ourselves that love, preparation, and good intentions will be enough. Or alternatively, we simply do not think about it at all. But late at night, when the house is quiet, and the mind refuses to rest,

Enjoying a well deserved break at Merchavim this week. The start of a new year invites reflection. It asks us to look back, not to judge ourselves, but to understand what carried us forward. Two years ago, if anyone had suggested, hinted, or even dared to imagine that Asaf would be living at home, content, happy, with a rich inner world we could access, communicating with us through typing, I honestly would have laughed in their face. Not because I lacked love, nor because I

Last week we celebrated Chanukah. Chanukah is the festival of lights, celebrating the miracle of the oil lasting the entire 8 days of the festival. I have my own miracle of light here at home with me. A light that has entered our lives and filled them with life, and a light that has entered his own life too. Asaf is my miracle of light. I have been given the rare gift of truly meeting my son, of getting to know the person who was always there, hidden inside, waiting. Since As

Asaf and Dill exercising in his running group When Asaf was a young child, he was a bolter. If he had the slightest opportunity, an open door, a distracted moment, he would disappear within seconds. He loved climbing and had absolutely no sense of danger. His favorite escape destination was always the playground. I would often find him standing on the pointed roof of the slide, one leg on each side, carefully balancing himself. But it was never calm. Each tiny wobble sent a

The Reunion with his phenomenal teacher Einat. Last week I was invited to deliver my lecture, “A Voice from the Silence,” at Asaf’s former school , a place that was home for him for eight phenomenal years. Walking through the familiar hallways filled me with emotions that are hard to describe. This was where so many chapters of our journey unfolded, years of growth, challenges, and lessons that shaped who we both are today. It felt deeply symbolic to return there, standing in

One of the games I love playing is backgammon. I have a running tournament with one of my friends, and there is always an open game on the table on my back porch. It’s always waiting for one of the kids to join me..I think I can safely say that the back porch is everyone’s favorite place in the house, except for Asaf. Asaf’s armchair in the salon is sacred territory. Anyone who forgets that quickly finds themselves lifted out of it by Asaf. It didn’t matter how many times we

An absolutely incredible thing happened in our home recently. We were sitting around the Friday night table, with all the children present, which is something that becomes more precious as they grow older. I asked the kids to share a good thing that happened to them this week. Each one shared. And then I turned to Asaf and said “You’re part of this conversation too”. I presented him with the keyboard. When I share our story of how Asaf began communicating with us through typ

I always thought that as Asaf’s mother, I knew my son. I knew what he liked to eat, where he liked to spend time, and I told myself I...