This tale began at Com DEALL Early Intervention Center during my early years as a therapist.
AK was brought in by his father, around two years old, wrapped tightly in his arms. As I greeted them, he buried his face into his father’s shoulder, refusing to turn toward me. I smiled, I spoke gently, and I brought out toys. But AK didn’t budge. He wouldn’t look at me. His body language said it all: “I am not ready.”
This was my first experience playing with a child with ASD so young. I remember thinking, If only I could see his eyes… I believe they tell tales.
When I tried to pat his back gently to get his attention, he let out a loud, piercing scream. His eyes met mine, but only for a fleeting moment, and it was full of fear. That image stayed with me. Even after almost ten years, I remember that moment. The session didn’t last long. He cried through it and eventually vomited. We stopped. We agreed to try again the next day.
That day, I realized that he was still in a cocoon. The pain, the anxiety in his eyes, lingered with me. My biggest goal was not to play. It was to gently help him shift that gaze from fear to trust.
Over the next few sessions, AK came in always on someone’s shoulder, either his father’s or his mother’s. I didn’t try to get close. I sat beside. I used parallel talk, solitary play techniques, and running commentary. I played by myself. I sang. I described every little thing I was doing.
Slowly, like dew evaporating under morning sun, the cries softened. They turned into mumbles. Then, silence.
Then came the glance, a fleeting look at the toy I was playing with.
Then a stretch of the hand… towards the bubbles.
Then, one day, he sat on the floormat… still distant, but grounded. My heart skipped a beat.
It took months. But the gaze changed from hostile to doubtful, to curious, to trusting, and finally playful.
By the time AK turned three, he allowed me to touch him again.
That moment, a light touch from him, a quick smile, and an immediate withdrawal of his hand was magical. His body was speaking before his voice ever could.
He began to explore the room. Picked up toys. I followed with my commentary. I sang his moves. He let me sit closer. I was no longer a threat.
One day, he reached out and held my index finger. He waved goodbye to his mother. His eyes still lingered on her face with longing, but he chose to stay. That was trust.
AK taught me many things I know about play and patience.
He was my short encyclopedia into the world of autism. Through him, I learnt to observe, to slow down, to respect the pace of the child. I learnt to listen with my eyes, with my skin, with my full presence.
I’m deeply grateful to the entire DEALL team, who supported his sensory integration, communication, and emotional development. It was never a one-person journey. It was a holistic approach that helped him and his family row gently across the stream of challenges of a newly diagnosed ASD child and family.
I don’t know where he is now. But I know this:
That little boy opened a lock in me, too.
He showed me that play, when slow, safe, and sacred, can build a bridge between two very different worlds.
