Sometimes, when I’m standing next to Joey, he’ll reach over and lightly touch my chin. He traces it like he’s underlining my face. It’s sweet. It’s tender. It’s so very him. He waits for moments that matter to him—and then, without a word, he reaches over and traces under my chin.

These are mommy moments: brushing his hair, clipping his toenails, reading him a book. These are the times he’s most likely to trace my face. When I make his favorite dinner and curl up next to him on the couch for a movie, he’ll trace my face. When he steals my blanket or catches me smiling at something he’s done—again, he traces my face.

My mother-in-law is one of those people who underlines words in birthday cards. My cards from her often have two or three underlined words in every sentence. This is Joey’s version of that. He’s underlining our life—the parts he loves best. He’s underlining me. And honestly, I think it’s pretty amazing. Most of us only underline when we write. Joey underlines moments.

There isn’t a single word in our language that fully captures this gesture of his. It’s not just love. It’s not just gratitude. It’s so many things all rolled into one. It says the things words can’t—and like much of what Joey does, it fills my heart.

The Language We’ve Learned Together

Raising a child with autism—especially a child who had very limited verbal communication until the age of 18—has meant our life is full of gestures. Sometimes I get caught up in wondering what’s going on in his head, wishing I could have a conversation with him. But if I let myself stay there too long, it gets overwhelming. Certain parts of parenting a child with autism can make my heart feel heavy and tired. So, I try not to live in those places. Instead, I savor these gestures. I hold them close and let them soothe the weary corners of my heart.

Big moments can be hard when you can’t talk about them. When my nephew passed away a few years ago, I tried to explain it to Joey using his favorite movie, The Lion King. I told him that Jared was in the sky with Mufasa. Joey responded with, “Bambi.” I said, “Yes, with Bambi’s mother. And it’s okay to feel sad like Bambi did.”

To this day, I marvel that he was able to say that word in response. There have been just a handful of moments like that—where something unexpected and profound comes through. Most of the time, I explain things and simply hope he understands, that he can process what I’m saying. But I don’t always know. That uncertainty is one of the hardest parts of parenting a child with communication challenges—not being able to guide them through the tough stuff, or even the everyday stuff, in the usual ways.

Celebrating Progress, Embracing Hope

Not long ago, a dear friend came over for coffee. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and she used to know Joey well. While she was visiting, he FaceTimed me. He was talking—in phrases, answering questions. Her eyes welled up. She told me how incredible it was to hear his voice, to hear him talking. It reminded me how far we’ve come. This beautiful human, who struggled so long to communicate, was now speaking with ease.

There is always hope, my friends.

I’m grateful for this minimally verbal life we share. “Minimally verbal” is still progress—and progress is a gift. Hard-won, beautiful, life-changing progress. These days, we’re even practicing typing letters to family. For now, I cherish the phrases he can say, the gestures we rely on, and all the nonverbal moments that speak volumes.

Maybe someday we’ll have full conversations. Maybe we won’t. But I’ve gotten pretty good at understanding Joey’s unique language—and I’m thankful for the people who continue to help me learn it. I’m proud of how far we’ve come. And I’ll always keep hoping for more.