Our Helen Keller Moment

Are we finally there on this arduous journey? There are moments in life you know will be forever imprinted in your mind, and this is one of them. Am I finally getting to know the real Blake — the one we have spent his entire life making assumptions about and decisions for?

I think back to when Blake was around eight years old and we were on holiday near Banff. We were staying in a cabin surrounded by mountains and decided to go swimming at the pool on the property. Another boy, around Blake’s age, was there and kept trying to interact with him. At the time, I didn’t feel like getting into an explanation about autism and Blake being unable to speak. Back then, I had learned that people often didn’t really want to hear it, or they would respond with an inappropriate comment. Because of that, I only shared the information on a need-to-know basis. That became my unwritten rule.

The boy at the pool was persistent, so I tried something I had never done before. I said, “He doesn’t speak English.” Not exactly a lie, but the boy was inquisitive and didn’t drop the matter the way I thought he would. He asked, “What language does he speak?” Realizing I couldn’t brush him off so easily, I finally explained that Blake had autism and was unable to speak.

What the boy said next gave me hope — not because I believed it would actually happen, but because of the compassion and insight behind his words. He said, “Well, maybe he will be like Helen Keller.”

I loved that boy’s wishful thinking and thought his parents should be proud of him. But truthfully, I never believed I would experience a “Helen Keller moment” myself.

But I did.

I experienced a moment with my son that I assume felt much like the moment when Helen Keller first connected the word “water” and broke through the darkness of silence into communication.

Our Helen Keller moment came during a Spelling to Communicate lesson about poetry. I’ve learned that many nonspeakers or minimal speakers often possess a rich inner language and a remarkable gift for poetry, so I intentionally chose the topic hoping it would spark something in Blake. For nearly two years, we had worked almost daily on the purposeful motor skills needed to point to letters on the letterboard. I knew he could spell and answer factual questions directly from a lesson, occasionally answer something with choices, but whenever I asked anything personal, I was unable to get an answer.

Imagine going through life never being able to communicate something about yourself — never truly making a decision or expressing a thought that was entirely your own.

I had been trying to stretch beyond factual questions into what Spelling to Communicate calls “open” responses. We went through the usual lesson questions first: “What is the last name of the poet William from the lesson?” Shakespeare. Those kinds of questions came easily to him.

Then I asked Blake, “If you were to give a title to a poem you would write, what would it be?”

His answer was:

“I HIDE INSIDE.”

There were a few corrections along the way — what I call “typo corrections” — so I paused and asked if that was truly what he wanted to spell.

He answered, “Yes.”

I tried not to react too strongly because I wanted to keep him regulated through the rest of the lesson, but inside I was ecstatic. That moment carried incredible meaning and became something I will never forget. It was what I now call Blake’s “Helen Keller moment.” One of the very first glimpses into what he may truly be thinking and feeling.

There are so many emotions tied to a moment like that. There is sadness in knowing how hard he has to work just to express himself. Sadness that he feels hidden inside himself. I have often described Blake as a “sideliner” because he has spent so much of his life watching others participate in things he could not join.

But alongside that sadness is something almost impossible to describe.

Hope.

At the beginning of this journey, I had hope. Now, joy has joined it. Joy feels like the light shining through hope — mixed with pride, gratitude, and a deeper love for who Blake is. He has worked incredibly hard to get where he is.

Because of where I stand now, I also understand how devastating false hope can be. False hope leaves people traumatized. It makes you afraid to try again because you fear another disappointment. I’ve lived that fear, and I know there is still a mountain ahead of us. But this risk was worth taking. I’m finally learning more about my son through the understanding that this was never an intellectual impairment, but a motor one. He simply needed someone to believe he could do it, along with motor coaching and an augmentative tool as simple as a letterboard.

The future is still unknown, but for the first time in a long time, it excites me.

I've taken training to become a Spelling to Communicate (S2C) practitioner because I want to learn more — not only about my son, but about other nonspeakers who also have so much to say. It feels like we are standing at the beginning of a shift in understanding. These individuals are going to change the world for the better. They have so much to teach us.

I know I’m not the smartest person in the room when I’m with a nonspeaker. Not even close.

There was a time when I felt responsible for somehow creating purpose out of Blake’s life because society might see him as a burden — someone unable to contribute or “pull his own weight.” I think so differently now.

I believe nonspeakers are going to change how the world sees them. They are going to help people focus on what truly matters. Some may think I’m getting ahead of myself based on only a few words, but I have witnessed what many would call miracles over and over again. When something you believed was impossible suddenly happens, your entire way of thinking changes. The box you once lived in breaks open, making room for entirely new possibilities.

And honestly, that is a beautiful place to be.

I love the life ride I’m on right now.

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