I Wish I Knew What You Were Thinking

As a parent, you dream of the day when your child says their first word. You imagine the sound of their tiny voice saying “mama” or “dada,” and your heart swells with anticipation. For my partner and me, that dream remains just that—a dream. Our beautiful boy, Elias, is two years old, deaf, and non-verbal. His world is a quiet one, and ours is filled with the noise of longing to understand him.

Every day with Elias is a mixture of joy and heartache. His smile lights up the room, we cherish the sound of his laughter, but there are moments when I look into his big, curious eyes and wish with every fibre of my being that I knew what he was thinking. I want to completely understand his needs, his fears, his joys. I want to break down the communication barrier that stands like an unyielding wall between us.

I watch him play, his small hands exploring the world around him. He is fascinated by everything, from the way sunlight filters through the leaves to the texture of his favourite teddy. I see his excitement, his frustration, and his curiosity, but I can't always decipher what he wants to convey. It's sometimes like we are living in two different worlds, each of us reaching out, trying to bridge the gap, yet always falling just short.

When Elias cries, my heart breaks a little more each time. I hold him when he will let me, rocking him gently, whispering soothing words he cannot hear. I want to tell him it's going to be okay, that Mummy is here, that he is safe and loved beyond measure. But the words feel empty because I know he cannot understand them. I wish I could crawl inside his mind, just for a moment, to understand the storm of emotions he must feel but cannot express.

I dream of the day Elias can tell us he loves us. I don’t care if it’s in sign language, through a picture he draws, or a gesture he makes. I just want to know. I want to hear “I love you” in whatever form it takes, to know that he feels the depth of love we have for him. I want to see his emotions painted in the air, tangible and real, breaking free from the silence that binds them.

We work tirelessly to find ways to communicate with him. We learn sign language, we use visual aids, we try to read his cues. There are small victories—moments when he seems to sign “more”, and we celebrate like it is the greatest achievement. Because, in many ways, it is. Each sign is a step closer to understanding him, to bridging that vast expanse that separates us.

But there are days when it feels like we are not making progress. Days when the frustration spills over, and I feel like I am failing him as a mother. I just want to be able to comfort him, to share in his world, to tell him I love him in a way he can grasp. I want to tear down the invisible walls and hold him close, knowing he understands every unspoken word.

Elias, my sweet boy, if you could hear me, I would tell you that you are the light of our lives. I would tell you that your presence is more precious than any words. I would tell you that we will never stop trying to reach you, to understand you, to love you in every way possible.

I will keep learning, keep trying, and keep loving you with all my heart. I will cherish every smile, every touch, every sign. I will hold onto the hope that one day, we will break down the barriers between us. And until then, know that my love for you is infinite, spoken or unspoken, heard or unheard.

Elias, I wish I knew what you were thinking. And I hope, with every part of me, that one day, you will find a way to tell me.