The Best Decision I Ever Made

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. I let him clear the path for a while, and then gently remind him,

"Asaf, it's walking time, not pathway cleaning time."

As we walked, I found myself saying something I'd never said before.

"Asaf, the best decision I ever made was bringing you home."

And I meant every word.

Watching him over the past eighteen months has been extraordinary.

He's happier.

He's calmer.

He's relaxed But more than anything else, he's determined.

When Asaf decides he wants to achieve something, he works relentlessly towards it. Every day he is fighting against a body that doesn't always do what his mind asks it to do. Every day he is working to overcome his apraxia.

At home, I repeat two sentences to him almost every day.

The first one is:

"Asaf, be clearer. You know what you want. Help us understand you more clearly."

Yesterday, as we sat down for dinner, instead of thrusting his empty glass in my face as he usually does, he simply tapped on the water bottle.

It was such a tiny moment, but a clearer message.

Progress isn't always dramatic. Sometimes it's in the tiniest of movements that can easily be missed.

The second sentence has become one of our family mantras:

"Your mind is stronger than your body."

I remind him constantly that although his body makes life difficult, it doesn't define what he is capable of achieving.

As we walked, I kept thinking about another sentence.

A sentence Asaf wrote while he was still living in the residential home.

Those were desperate days.

Almost every week he typed messages like,

"Find me a solution.""Get me out of here."

Then one day he wrote,

"I have to have freedom of choice like every other human being."

At the time, I thought he was simply asking to come home.

Looking back, I realize he was asking for something much bigger.

For twenty-three years, I believed it was my job to make every important decision for him.

He was asking to make those decisions with me.

That lesson came back with full force a few months ago when we realized we needed to replace his support worker.

His previous support worker cared deeply about Asaf, but he spoke neither Hebrew nor English. After an incident that put Asaf's safety at risk, I knew we needed someone we could communicate with.

We met a potential new support worker together.

Later that day, Asaf typed,

"I have to be part of this decision-making. It's my body. He's taking care of me. I have to give my approval."

Then he added,

"I want to continue with Dill. I like Dill."

What followed wasn't an argument.

It was weeks of conversations.

At one point he wrote,

"Why are we even having this conversation? You've already made your decision."

It was a fair question.

I told him,

"I've heard your voice. I know what you want. But sometimes, when we're inside a situation, it's difficult to see the bigger picture. My responsibility is to look at that too."

One of Asaf's greatest dreams is to live independently one day.

For that to become possible, he needs people around him who can communicate with him, with me, and who can support him to build that future.

He accepted that.

Not immediately.

It still took weeks before we made the change.

Not because I was trying to convince him. But because we stayed in the conversation until we both understood each other's perspective.

Six weeks ago, Ramil joined our lives.

From the very beginning, I told him,

"You're not here to take care of Asaf. You're here to support him."

There is a huge difference.

A carer does things for someone. A supporter helps someone do things for themselves.

Ramil understood that immediately.

He watches Asaf carefully. He watches how I encourage him.He notices what Asaf is trying to achieve and, instead of stepping in, he creates the space for Asaf to try.

He isn't trying to make life easier.

He's helping Asaf become more independent.

Watching that gives me so much joy.

Sometimes I wonder how different things might have been if we'd understood all this years ago.

But then I remind myself:

Looking backwards changes nothing. Looking forwards changes everything.

When Asaf wrote that sentence, what I realized was that he wasn't only asking to come home.

He was asking to be seen as someone whose opinions matter.

Someone who deserves to be part of the decisions that shape his own life.

Bringing Asaf home wasn't the best decision I ever made because it changed him.

It was the best decision because it changed me.

It changed the way I see him.

The way I speak to him.

The expectations I have of him.

And because I changed, he has finally been given the opportunity to show us who he has always been.