I Just Know he is going to Talk, Sweetheart

The Gift of Communication.

Welcome to my little corner of the internet best known as Finding Cooper’s Voice. I named this blog over 11 years ago, back before my son was diagnosed with autism. When I picked the name, I thought my job was to help him find his voice. What I didn’t realize was he would actually help me find mine. Thank you for being here.

As a free subscriber, you can expect to receive one heartfelt essay right here and in your inbox each week. If you want to read more and connect with a like-minded community, you may want to consider becoming a paid subscriber.

With a small monthly contribution, you get a lot of added perks, like exclusive quarterly Zoom hangouts, subscriber-only posts, early-bird invites to my retreats and events, and extra time with me. But whether you’re paying or not, please know how much I appreciate you being here!

I think a lot about what a privilege it is to be able to communicate and be understood. Probably more than the average person.

Not always of course. When my son was 1 and 2 and even 3-years-old, and not babbling, I remember crying in worry on the phone to my mom and her saying…’everybody talks Katie.’

I can still here her saying it. The words providing so much comfort at first. Even my dad sneaking in…’I just know he is going to talk sweetheart.’

Well, here we are. Thirteen-years-old and my yellow-haired boy still doesn’t use many words. I mean, yes, he can say ‘m-o-m’ a hundred times a day like any other kid. And his brother’s names too.

But he mostly communicates with sounds and gestures and photos and characters in movies. It’s pretty amazing honestly.

He also uses a computer to talk. It’s called a speech device. A talker as we call it. And he presses buttons, and the words come out. It is his voice in this chaotic world.

A few days ago, we celebrated my husband’s birthday. Midway through, Cooper started to struggle.

I could see it starting. His demands getting louder. His need for technology. His hands moving. His tears starting to follow.

It was a tough 20 minutes or so. And we couldn’t figure out why. There was no easy answer.

After, we took a few moments. Just the two of us. We sat together peacefully in his bedroom.

I felt my anxieties starting to calm. I felt the sadness that often follows a meltdown. The wonder. The worry. The frustration.

I looked at him for a beat and I could tell he was sad. I saw it in his eyes and his shoulders. His hands clasped together. Tight. And cheeks red from crying.

‘Talk to me Cooper, what happened? Get your talker. Tell me why you got upset.’

And the little boy with very few spoken words, reached for his speech device.

He pushed four buttons in a row.

Dad
Dad
Sad.
I’m sorry.

When he looked up at me, I saw true remorse in his eyes. And frustration.

‘I am sorry.’ That’s what he was trying to say.

It is a gift and a privilege to be able to communicate and have others understand. I’ve noticed since having in my life, that people often don’t listen to him. They talk over him. Or rush him. Or give up on him.

I won’t don’t that. Not ever.

Please know that my son has taught me a million things, through autism and disability, but the greatest is to listen.

I will always listen, no matter how he communicates. No matter what language. No matter what behavior.

He will never feel silenced with me.

I will listen.

‘M-O-M,’ he said, slow, annunciating each syllable.

‘I’m listening, buddy. And I hear you.’

---

Upcoming Events

I have quite a few presentations coming up! Click below to see where I will be next!

---

🗣️ CHIME IN…. please share your struggles, triumphs, and goals around being a caregiver in the comments section. We can learn so much from each other, and this is a safe space to learn and grow.

My book is on sale! Have you grabbed your copy yet!

When Kate Swenson’s son Cooper was diagnosed with severe, nonverbal autism, her world stopped. She had always dreamed of having the perfect family life. She hadn’t signed up for life as a mother raising a child with a disability.

At first, Kate experienced the grief of broken dreams. Then she felt the frustration and exhaustion of having to fight for your child in a world that is stacked against them. But through hard work, resilience and personal growth, she would come to learn that Cooper wasn’t the one who needed to change. She was. And it was this transformation that led Kate to acceptance—and ultimately joy. In Forever Boy, Kate shares her inspiring journey with honesty and compassion, offering solace and hope to others on this path and illuminating the strength and perseverance of mothers.