Listening Differently: What I've Learned from a Child Who Spoke Without Words

As a first-time mom, I’ve learned a lot about myself, my son, and the world around me. Becoming a parent has broadened my perspective, heightened my senses, and made me more grateful for the little things in life—like a hot cup of coffee, a five-minute shower, or a few precious hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And yet, I’ve also come to cherish the moments I once thought I’d dread: the middle-of-the-night wake-ups. There’s something sacred about that time—when everything is still, and it’s just the baby and me, tucked into each other, his small body relaxing into mine as he drifts back to sleep in the comfort of our bond.

What surprised me most was that I began to wake up before he did. Almost every night, I find myself stirring ten to fifteen minutes before I hear a single sound. I check the monitor. He’s asleep. The room is quiet. And still—somehow—I know. Before long, he begins to stir.

This didn’t just happen once or twice. It became a pattern. So I looked into it, and it turns out—it’s a thing. It’s called maternal pre-awakening or maternal attunement. While there's no single term used universally in research, this phenomenon is thought to involve a mix of hormonal synchronization, subtle sensory cues, and circadian rhythm alignment. I found this fascinating—but what captivated me more was what it meant. It reminded me that so much of communication is silent. And that deep connection doesn’t always need to be spoken to be real.

In my work as a BCBA, I’ve had the privilege of supporting many children who are non-speaking. Some use AAC devices, picture exchange, signs, or gestures. Some lead the adults around them by the hand. Some express their thoughts through glances, shifts in body posture, or vocalizations. And every single one of them has communicated something meaningful.

It might not have been through spoken words, but these children have taught me to watch more closely, to listen more deeply, and to slow myself down enough to truly connect. They’ve shown me that communication is not limited to what’s said aloud—and that understanding often comes not from teaching, but from being present and attuned.

Perhaps most striking of all has been watching the way parents of non-speaking children tune into their child’s needs. Just like I found myself waking up before my son even cried, I’ve seen countless parents anticipate what their child wants, what might upset them, or when they need support—before any behavior happens. This isn’t just “knowing” your child. It’s a level of attunement that’s rooted in day-in and day-out connection, presence, and responsiveness. It’s not something I, or any provider, can ever replicate—because it’s built on the sacred rhythm that exists between a parent and their child.

And that is something I think we often overlook in our clinical language, in our goals, and in our programs.

I could break this down into ABA terminology—talk about stimulus control, antecedent cues, generalization, or response effort. But honestly, that doesn’t feel right. What I’m describing isn’t about shaping behavior. It’s about witnessing humanity in its purest form.

And sometimes, the most meaningful “data” doesn’t come in tallied responses or percentage graphs. Sometimes, it comes in a silent look, a calm body, a moment of mutual understanding. It comes from trusting that communication exists, even if it doesn’t sound like what we’re used to.

I’ve learned so much from children who never used words—and even more from the parents who love them. They’ve taught me that connection doesn’t begin with language. It begins with presence. It grows with patience. And it deepens with trust.

Whether you're a parent, a professional, or both: don’t underestimate the power of the quiet moments. They speak volumes—if we’re willing to listen.