Celebrating a Year at Home

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 2025 feels both close and impossibly far away. I was finishing renovating our house so Asaf could finally come home. Searching for a carer with a driving license. Waiting. Holding my breath. And then, on the 24th of January, Asaf came home.

One of the most important things for me when Asaf returned was to share with my community  who Asaf really is. To help them understand his autism and apraxia. To know that he is smart. That he understands everything, even when his body gives him no way to show it. I wanted people to talk to him, not around him. To say they are happy to see him. To share as opposed to asking questions that he cannot answer. And to understand that a blank look is not a lack of understanding, but a body that betrays him.

What I did not yet understand was how much I still had to learn.

When he came home, I didn’t just bring my son back into our house. I began, for the first time, to really meet him.

I spent hours simply observing. Watching. Trying to understand how his brain works. Seeing him emerge and regress in and out of his autism. Learning, slowly, how dyspraxia and apraxia live in his body, not as words on paper, but as daily physical reality. Seeing him struggle to perform tasks that are so simple and automatic for me is painful to watch. It's a constant reminder of the invisible effort his body demands from him every single day.

There are moments when my own body reacts before my mind does. When I see him trying to perform what looks like a simple task, like pouring himself a glass of milk, the muscles in my body tighten. My instinct screams go help him. Step in. Make it easier.

And then I stop myself.

Because I know that in those moments, something important is happening. I know that when he succeeds on his own, he is creating new neural pathways. I know that these tiny steps are not tiny at all. They are the building blocks of independence.

And he has succeeded.

There have been so many firsts that I can barely hold them all. Joining a running and cycling group. Running 2 kilometers as part of a half marathon, not on the sidelines, but inside the race, with his running group. He joined a cycling group, and on a overnight trip with them Cycled 25 kilometers on a tandem. He’s been out to dinner with friends. Choosing to be social in ways that once felt unimaginable.

There were quieter firsts too. Sitting with us on the back porch. Watching a show together. Playing backgammon. Taking part in a family conversation around the table, not just as someone present in the room, but as someone present in the moment.

Each of these moments rewrote something in me.

For 24 years, I believed I understood who my son was. I now know that many of those beliefs were wrong. I am learning a new version of who Asaf is. And with that comes a painful, humbling, and necessary rewiring of my brain.

I live with a constant dilemma. How do I respect Asaf’s privacy, while continuing my dream of raising awareness for presuming competence in non verbal autistic individuals? How do I tell our story without taking ownership of experiences that are not only mine? How do I speak, while learning when to be silent?

One thing I have learned recently, it is that I need to stop and look at events through Asaf’s eyes. Especially when I speak about the past. What did it feel like for him? What did he understand? What did he carry silently, what impact did these experiences have on him? while we interpreted from the outside?

I remind myself often that I am not alone on this journey. That this is not a sprint. It is an ultra marathon. And even more importantly, I am not setting the pace. I am learning to run at Asaf’s pace, not mine.

This is not easy for me.

For years, I made decisions for him. I spoke for him. I believed I had to. Today, I am learning to pause. To listen differently. Asaf has an opinion, and that it matters. He has his own voice, even when it is sometimes hard for me to hear what he is saying.

And somewhere along the way, I realized that presuming competence cannot stop with Asaf. It has to include me too.

This week I finished my studies to become a communication through typing therapist. I will be able to give non verbal autistic individuals the opportunity to communicate and share their inner worlds with others. That thought fills me with excitement and fear in equal measure.

This process is asking me to release limiting beliefs about myself. To believe that I am capable. That I am allowed to step into this role. That my voice, my learning, and my presence matter too.

I struggle with separating being a mother and being a therapist. I am learning that this tension may never fully disappear. Instead, I am trying to acquire a new skill. Turning the defect into an effect. Allowing what once felt like a limitation to become a source of sensitivity, ethics, and depth.

This year has changed us both.

Asaf has grown in ways that are visible, and in ways that only those who truly watch will notice. And I have grown too. Not by becoming stronger, but by becoming more attentive. Not by knowing what comes next, but by learning to stay present.

Presuming competence is no longer an idea for me. It is a daily practice. It lives in restraint. In waiting. In trust. In choosing not to rush in, even when every part of me wants to.

We are learning together. Adjusting. Listening. Finding a new rhythm.

Our journey is still unfolding, at Asaf’s pace.