When Asaf Told Me I Was Getting on His Nerves — and I Loved It

Sunset on Hof Dor

Two months ago, Asaf asked that we — his family — stop participating in his typing sessions. He wanted the space to express himself freely, without the pressure of responding to what we wanted to talk about.

Time for his thoughts, his pace, his voice. I respected that.

It wasn’t easy. I missed him. I missed our quiet car rides to the sessions — those little pockets of one-on-one time just the two of us. I missed seeing the words unfold slowly on the screen. I missed the connection.

But I understood. This was his sacred time. And my role as his mother was to put my needs second and protect that space.

Two months later, I asked if I could join him. Just once. I told him I missed him and that I’d love to talk — really talk. He said yes. He loved the idea.

One of the things I wanted to ask him about was a request he had received — an invitation to participate in a short film being produced by our local authority to raise awareness about individuals with disabilities.

But this time, something was different. For the first time, it wasn’t me deciding if he should participate — it was his decision.

He had the power to choose. To reflect. To express his thoughts. And honestly? I was blown away.

His clarity. His self-awareness. The way he expresses his point of view. It wasn’t just powerful — it was mature, insightful, deeply human. I sat there in awe, watching him slowly choose each letter.

As we neared the end of our conversation, Asaf typed:"You’re getting on my nerves."

And I... smiled and then laughed.

Because if you’ve ever met Asaf, you know — his face is unreadable. Calm, neutral, often a poker face. Without those words, I never would have known how he was feeling.

But he told me. Clearly. Honestly. And for the first time in his life, my son expressed irritation directly to me.

And I loved it.

Not because I enjoy being told I’m annoying — but because it was so normal.

It’s not just about communication or connection — it’s about being human.

This was such an ordinary act — a child getting irritated with his parent — and that's exactly what made it so extraordinary.

I’m sure Asaf has felt this way many times before — like any child toward a parent — but until now, he had no way to express it.

And I’m just so deeply grateful that now… he can.

When I sit beside him while he types, I have to hold myself back. It’s hard not to second-guess what he’s going to say, to want to finish his sentences, to jump in and interpret. But I don’t.

Instead, I watch. Letter by letter. Word by word.

And it’s a lesson in patience — in presence — in humility.

Watching him claim his voice, his autonomy, his truth.

I feel so blessed we have this form of communication. But it’s not enough for us to have it.

This must be a right — not a luxury.

Every non-verbal child deserves access to this tool. Every school should offer communication through typing .It must be affordable. Accessible. Universal.

Because when a child who’s been silent for 24 years suddenly tells you, “You’re getting on my nerves” — something profound has happened.

It means he’s here.

He’s real.

He’s free.