The Voice Around the Table

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 typing a year and a half ago, people often presume that something suddenly clicked in his brain, and he is now able to type freely as any neurotypical person would. How I wish that were true. In reality, every word is a battle, every letter an act of determination.

Asaf has to break down what he wants to say into words, each word into letters, and then overcome his apraxia, hoping that the message his brain sends will reach his finger without distortion. I often see him fix his gaze on one letter while his finger presses another. He then tries to correct himself. Physically, it is an exhausting process. The keyboard is held vertically opposite him, and the movement he makes to type comes  from his shoulder and not from his finger. This means typing is a gross motor skill rather than a fine motor one; this makes it slightly easier on his apraxia. Add to this the external and internal factors; noise, smells, fatigue, dysregulation, and you can see that so many things need to align for him to be able to type.

I see how much physical effort and concentration it takes for Asaf to press the correct key, for his mind to will his body to perform correctly. When I facilitate typing with him, I must be mindful of my own thoughts and emotions, as he picks up on them; and they too can affect his movement and behavior in the moment.

And yet, on this Friday night, Asaf was determined. He was so focused on sharing his highlight of the week. As I sat beside him, I watched his effort and felt the weight of it, the immense labor behind each letter. Then the words appeared, and with them came the tears in my eyes.

This was the very first time we had ever had a family conversation, all of us together. A first. Another glass ceiling shattered.

For 25 years Asaf sat at our table, listening to our conversations, never able to share his own thoughts or feelings. Think about that for a moment. Imagine yourself surrounded by your loved ones, hearing the conversation but having no way to join in. No way to share your opinions, your ideas, your emotions. Stuck inside yourself. Day in, Day out. How would that feel?

I think about all the times Asaf must have listened to a problem, thought of a solution, but had no way to voice it. The times he had an idea or a joke but no way to share it. The frustration. The loneliness. The anger.

But on this night, something changed. On this night, Asaf had a voice. He was part of the conversation. And that moment was nothing short of extraordinary.

Moments like this remind me why presuming competence is not just a belief, but a responsibility. For too many years, Asaf’s silence was mistaken for lack of understanding. His intelligence, emotions, and thoughts were hidden beneath layers of assumptions made by others, including me. But when we choose to presume competence, we create space for voices like his to be heard.

Presuming competence means believing that every person, no matter how they communicate, has something meaningful to share. It means offering opportunities, support, and patience rather than limits and labels. It is a call to look beyond what we see on the surface and to recognize the full humanity within.

That night at the table was more than just a family conversation. It was proof of what happens when we dare to believe in possibility. For Asaf, it was a chance to say, “I have a voice, and I’m part of the conversation.” For the rest of us, it was a reminder that by presuming competence, we do not just change lives, we open doors to connection, dignity, and hope.