Not a Fluke, Not a Tragedy: What One Non-Speaking Blog Reveals About the Autism We Refuse to See
I came across a blog today written by a non-speaking autistic teen named Philip.
What I discovered was a profoundly uplifting communication outlet authored by an amazing young man — one whose voice had been waiting, not to be found, but to be recognized.
The blog, Faith, Hope, and Love…With Autism, chronicles Philip’s journey as he spells out his thoughts using a letterboard. He doesn’t speak with his mouth — but he speaks with clarity, insight, and deep emotional fluency. His words are unmistakably his.
“I never wanted to be known as the kid who types. I want to be known as the kid who speaks truth.”
— [Philip — Faith, Hope, and Love…With Autism]
This is not a fluke.
This is not an anomaly.
This is what it looks like when someone is given time, tools, and the unwavering presumption that they have a mind worth hearing.
And it’s everything most autism research still refuses to see.
Philip is exactly the kind of person deficit-driven systems write off — not because he lacks intelligence, but because his intelligence doesn’t follow neurotypical patterns of speech or expression.
In clinical spaces, he would be classified as “profound.”
In too many studies, he would be labeled by absence — of speech, of testable outcomes, of the kind of behaviors researchers know how to measure.
And yet: here he is. Present. Articulate. Relational.
Not because someone fixed him — but because someone believed in him.
This blog doesn’t ask for pity. It doesn’t demand attention.
It just exists — a steady act of resistance in the form of ordinary love and literacy.
It challenges everything we’re told to assume about support needs, communication, and cognition.
It holds the door open for reimagining what autistic presence actually looks like when it’s supported instead of managed.
If you are a researcher, a policymaker, or even a parent who has been told your child’s silence equals absence — go read Philip. Don’t read about him. Read him.
Let this be a reminder that intelligence isn’t always loud.
That regulation isn’t always expressive.
And that the most urgent narratives aren’t being told in journals — they’re being spelled out in kitchens, one letter at a time.
This isn’t a detour from AAB’s mission.
This is the mission.
Reclaiming the autism narrative means lifting up the voices who were never supposed to be heard.
Philip is not a miracle.
He’s a mirror.
He reflects everything this system still struggles to accept:
That non-speaking doesn’t mean non-thinking.
That support without belief is often just surveillance.
That research which ignores voices like his is not rigorous — it’s blind.
And that when autistic people are presumed competent and given real tools, they don’t just emerge — they teach.
We need to stop asking whether that’s possible.
And start asking why we’ve looked away for so long.
Shared here with deep respect and admiration. If the author or family prefers not to be spotlighted, we will remove this post immediately upon request.