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