I saw a quote on Facebook the other day that really stuck with me:
“He’s nonverbal, but he hears you. When you’re around someone who doesn’t speak, remember: just because they can’t respond doesn’t mean they aren’t listening. And just because they don’t react the way you’d expect doesn’t mean they don’t understand.”
I felt that in my chest. Yeah — he hears you. A lot of them do.
I’ve worked in special education for a long time. And I have an older, autistic brother who doesn’t speak. So I’ve lived on both sides of this: the personal and the professional. And let me tell you — just because someone doesn’t respond the way you expect, doesn’t mean they aren’t tuned in. Just because the reply doesn’t come in words doesn’t mean there isn’t a reply.
Some of it shows up in energy, in body language; a look, laugh, or pause. You just have to be willing to listen differently.
There’s a moment that’s stuck to my ribs all these years later. I was working with someone, and something crappy was said in front of them–directed at them. And it went “over their head,” or at least that’s what people kept saying. I remember bringing it up to someone else, and they brushed it off. “Don’t worry. It went over their head.”
I stood there, stunned, trying to find something to say. Eventually, all I could get out was “Oh… okay,” before walking away. But it didn’t sit right. It still doesn’t.
Because they didn’t react the way you expected, I’m supposed to pretend it didn’t happen? I’m supposed to just let it go because it was “probably nothing” to them?
No. I don’t think so.
Here’s the thing: maybe the words didn’t land exactly the way they were said. Maybe the person didn’t catch the full weight of what was being said about them. Or maybe — and hear me out — maybe they did, and they just didn’t respond the way you’re used to seeing.
What are we teaching people when we treat them like they aren’t worth standing up for – just because they don’t speak up for themselves in a way we’re used to?
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a magnetic pull with people who are “different.” And I don’t mean weird in a bad way — I mean people who don’t fit the mold. People who don’t fit into the neat little boxes society has laid out for how we’re supposed to be. They gravitate toward me, always have. And for a while, I didn’t know why.
Was it because of how I was raised? Because I grew up with an autistic brother and was taught early on that people express themselves in all kinds of ways? Maybe. But I’ve never felt like I was doing anything special. I wasn’t putting on an act or performing kindness. Nor was I walking around with a “safe person” sticker on my forehead. I just talk to people like…well, people.
And I think that’s what it is.
When most people meet someone with a disability, or who communicates differently, there’s this weird reflex to shrink themselves — to simplify their language, change their tone, switch to baby talk, or treat the person like they’re fragile or incapable. I get that it usually comes from a well-meaning place. But it doesn’t land the way you think it does.
When I meet someone — whether they’re 7 or 17 or 37 — I talk to them like I would anyone else. I might adjust what we’re talking about depending on their age or interests, but the how doesn’t change. My tone, energy, and respect? Same across the board. I’m not calculating every word or thinking, “Okay, how do I dumb this down for them?” I’m just talking. Just being. And 9 times out of 10, we end up laughing. We end up vibing like we’ve known each other forever.
Some of the people I work with speak clearly.
They’ll tell you exactly what they want and need, no problem. But others? Not so much. Some don’t speak at all, or only use a few words. But the conversations still happen. The connection is still real. I’ve had moments where I’m doubled over laughing with someone who hasn’t said a single word — and yet I’ll walk away from that interaction thinking, “They’re one of my best friends.”
Connection doesn’t require a spoken language. It never has.
I don’t do anything magical. I don’t carry some kind of decoder ring for nonverbal communication. Instead, I just treat people like people. No pedestals. No pity. Nothing like “let me talk down to you” voice. I meet them where they are, as they are, and that’s where we build from.
So yeah — maybe he doesn’t speak. Maybe she only uses a few signs. Or maybe they respond with a hum or a head tilt or a smile. But they hear you. They feel the energy you bring into a room. And they know when you’re speaking to them or around them. That matters.
Even if the words don’t come back, even if there’s never a clear “conversation” — they still feel it. And that connection, respect, and joy? It stays with them.
And it stays with me, too.
Featured image via RDNE Stock project on Pexels
