“Sometimes” Was the Only Answer That Fit the Moment – Finding Cooper’s Voice

I was walking into the neighborhood dry cleaners when another mom was walking out. She smiled and asked, “How is Danielle? Is she still making progress?”

I stood there, my coat slipping down my arm, one sleeve half on and half off. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Danielle is my 23-year-old daughter. She has autism and complex medical needs, including Crohn’s.

“How is Danielle?” is a question I know how to answer. A simple fine, okay, or hanging in there is usually enough.

“Is she still making progress?” is different. It asks for more than a passing reply.

I answered as best I could at the time. “Sometimes.” Then I changed the subject. “How are you all doing?” Polite. A pivot.

Standing there, I felt the pressure behind the question. The hope for reassurance. The need for an answer that would suggest forward motion, even when our days don’t reliably move in one direction.

I recognized that feeling immediately.

Before becoming a parent, I was a social worker. I had spent years sitting with families in uncertainty, without needing to reach for a definite timeline. I believed I understood what it meant to live without clear markers. But I was not prepared for how it would feel in my own home, with my own child.

Some weeks, my daughter speaks in full sentences and carries out complex tasks. She paints scenes filled with detail, solves crossword puzzles faster than I ever could, or prepares a family meal. She also types reflections that stay with me, including one that reads: “This is sometimes a bumpy road. That’s why we all need seatbelts. LOL. It’s so worth getting to the destination of hope, knowledge, connection, and fun.” I come back to her words often.

Other weeks look different.

During periods of pain or sensory overload, her voice can drop to a whisper and then disappear altogether. Skills that came easy earlier suddenly seem out of reach.

Even on days when she seems steady, a small change in her movement or voice can put me on alert. I watch for the loss of words, a sudden high-pitched scream, signs of pain, or involuntary movements, moments when her body tells me something is wrong before she can say it.

At times, she can answer when I ask her to type. But not always. When typing becomes a struggle too, I wait. If she wants to tell me something, or is able in that moment, she will. If not, she’ll find her way back to words when she’s ready.

The first time she typed, “I’m always listening, even when people think they’re whispering,” and then referenced something we had said hours earlier, I felt a familiar truth settle back into place. I looked at her. Those big, beautiful brown eyes met mine. I felt a rush of gratitude for the connection. I said, “I’ve always known that you’re right here with us.” She smiled.

A while back, I stopped tracking how many questions she answered or tasks she completed. Instead, I began noticing what was present in the moment. The glances, the smiles, the gestures, the words.

When we make space for the full reality of her experience, the joy, the love, the pain, the setbacks, and the resilience required to move through them, we allow room for growth and true connection.