Everyone was arriving at once to begin the day. I was putting my things away when I heard someone across the classroom say, “No thank you, friend. We don’t throw cards on the floor.”
I looked over and saw Zachary sitting at a table, dropping cards onto the floor one by one. I walked over and sat beside him.
Instead of redirecting him, I watched.
Beneath the classroom noise, I began to hear something. He was singing—almost humming—”There were ten in the bed, and the little one said, ‘Roll over…'”
Another card hit the floor.
What had looked like throwing was part of his play. He was acting out the song. I joined in. Zachary smiled, and we finished the song together before putting the cards away.
If I had focused only on the obvious behavior, I would have missed the imagination behind it. He was just being a kid.
That moment has stayed with me because it points to something bigger: What if a child is already communicating, and we’re waiting for them to do it in a form we happen to recognize?
This is not an argument against AAC, visual schedules, picture symbols, sign language, or speech-generating devices. Children should have as many accessible ways to communicate as possible. I am asking what happens when a tool meant to expand communication inadvertently becomes the only form we are willing to accept.
The Card Was Never the Problem
Visuals, signs, and devices can provide predictability, choice, language, self-advocacy, independence, and a way to communicate with people who may not know a child well. Augmentative and alternative communication (AAC) can also be multimodal; gestures, vocalizations, speech, signs, symbols, and speech-generating devices need not compete with one another (Bourque, 2020; Biggs, Carter, & Gilson, 2019).
The question is what happens when a support built to expand communication becomes the price a child has to pay to be understood.
Imagine a child presented with an activity. She turns her head away. It is presented again, and she pushes it away. An adult holds up a “break” card: “Show me break. Point to break.”
Teaching a universally understandable way to request a break can increase autonomy and safety. But before the next prompt, there is a quieter question: Did she already tell us something?
We cannot know exactly what is happening in her mind. She may be overwhelmed, confused, tired, in pain, or simply uninterested. Children are allowed preferences, frustration, and ordinary dislikes. Disability does not make those parts of childhood less deserving of dignity.
What if we acknowledged what we see—”It looks like you need a break”—then modeled “break” with a sign, symbol, or AAC device and, when appropriate, gave the break?
The next time, perhaps she turns away again. Perhaps she reaches for the card or selects “break” on her device. Either way, we can teach another form of communication without first requiring her to abandon the one she was already using.
That distinction is dignity.
We are not saying, “I won’t listen until you use the right word.”
We are saying, “I heard you. Let me give you another way to tell me, too.”
Communication Does Not Begin With the Card
Communication does not begin when a child points to the right card. Gesture, gaze, movement, posture, facial expression, vocalization, proximity, speech, sign, and AAC can all carry information. Research on AAC emphasizes multiple modalities and responsive communication partners (Bourque, 2020; Biggs et al., 2019).
That does not mean adults should guess. Turning away is not always “no.” Dropping something is not necessarily defiance. A child heading for a door might be escaping something—or trying to reach water, a person, or a quieter space.
The point is not to become better at guessing. It is to become slower to assume there is nothing there to understand.
Safety still comes first. If a child is about to run into the street or otherwise enter immediate danger, intervene. A boundary may need to hold. Protecting a child and respecting communication are not mutually exclusive.
A child also should not have to produce a perfectly recognizable “no” before we notice distress. Work on assent is useful here: Morris, Detrick, and Peterson (2021) discuss challenges in recognizing assent among autistic people and people with developmental disabilities, while Breaux and Smith (2023) describe withdrawal of assent as potentially vocal or non-vocal. Gonzales (2026) similarly argues that withdrawal, distress, and behavioral changes may contain information adults need to notice.
This does not mean every movement is refusal or every refusal can be honored. It means the absence of a conventional “no” is not automatically the absence of communication.
When Communication Becomes a Power Struggle
If a card gets a response but turning away, pushing materials aside, or visible distress does not, we risk teaching something underneath the symbol: I’ll hear you, but only if you say it my way.
Imagine believing you have answered someone, only to be asked again. You move away; they move closer. You push the activity aside; it returns. The card appears again.
The interaction can become a power struggle over whose version of communication will count. What began as communication teaching can become another demand layered onto the first, and frustration may intensify.
That does not mean demands disappear when a child protests. Adults must teach, guide, protect, and set boundaries. But necessary power still deserves examination.
The goal of communication support should be to give a child more power to participate in their own life—not to give adults a more efficient way to obtain compliance.
Maybe the Gap Is Between Us
Damian Milton’s double empathy problem challenges the idea that communication difficulty belongs solely to the autistic person. Misunderstanding can happen between people who experience and communicate with the world differently (Milton, 2012; Milton, Gurbuz, & López, 2022).
That changes the question I ask as the adult in the room. Instead of only asking, How can I teach this child to communicate in a way I understand? I also ask, How can I become better at understanding this child?
Those questions belong together. Give the child the card. Teach the sign. Model the device. Give them rich language. But successful communication cannot be the child’s responsibility alone. Communication partners can learn strategies that improve interaction (Biggs et al., 2019; Bourque, 2020).
If we ask children to learn new ways to communicate with us, dignity requires that we keep learning new ways to listen to them.
A Sign for Water
We’ll call him Alexander. He is nonspeaking and has a significant history of elopement. About a week earlier, he had pointed toward his water bottle, and I showed him the sign for “water.”
One hot day on the playground, he suddenly took off running toward the building. I ran after him and called his name.
He stopped, turned, and signed: Water.
Then he continued to the fountain, drank, and came right back.
I had never really noticed that fountain before that day. I almost fell to my knees.
His body had already given me important information: he was going somewhere, with purpose. But I did not know why. Then he told me.
Water.
The sign did not erase what his movement had communicated, and his movement did not make the sign unnecessary. I needed both pieces.
Teaching Alexander the sign gave him another way to make himself understood, and it gave me another way to understand him.
Children need more ways to be understood, not fewer ways that count.
The Moment Before the Prompt
We can keep expanding children’s access to rich, flexible communication while expanding our own ability to notice what they are already using. Sometimes that means a card, a sign, or a speech-generating device. Sometimes it means reducing noise, slowing the pace, making a real break available, or joining the silly song instead of picking up the cards.
Modeling and demanding are not the same thing. We can make communication available without requiring a particular performance before a child earns the right to be heard.
Before redirecting, watch. Before assuming, wonder. Before prompting the card one more time, notice the hands, face, body, sounds, task, and environment.
Sometimes the answer is to teach the card. Sometimes it is to model the sign. Sometimes a safety boundary has to hold. And sometimes the most dignified thing we can do is recognize that the child may have been communicating all along.
The card is not the enemy. AAC is not the enemy. Visual supports are not the enemy.
The trouble begins when the support matters more than the person it was designed to support.
Giving a child more ways to be heard should never require us to stop listening to the ways they already communicate.
Author’s Note: This essay reflects personal observations and professional perspective. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect privacy. AAC, visual supports, and communication teaching remain essential; this piece argues for responsive, multimodal communication support that honors a child’s existing ways of expressing needs, preferences, distress, and intent.
References
Biggs, E. E., Carter, E. W., & Gilson, C. B. (2019). A scoping review of the involvement of children’s communication partners in aided augmentative and alternative communication modeling interventions. American Journal of Speech-Language Pathology, 28(2), 743–758. https://doi.org/10.1044/2018_AJSLP-18-0024
Bourque, K. S. (2020). Peer-mediated augmentative and alternative communication interventions for young children with autism spectrum disorder and limited to no spoken communication. Perspectives of the ASHA Special Interest Groups, 5(3), 602–610. https://doi.org/10.1044/2020_PERSP-20-10001
Breaux, C. A., & Smith, K. (2023). Assent in applied behaviour analysis and positive behaviour support: Ethical considerations and practical recommendations. International Journal of Developmental Disabilities, 69(1), 111–121. https://doi.org/10.1080/20473869.2022.2144969
Gonzales, R. (2026, July 12). Communication over compliance: Promoting assent, autonomy and self-advocacy. Autism Spectrum News.
Milton, D. E. M. (2012). On the ontological status of autism: The “double empathy problem.” Disability & Society, 27(6), 883–887. https://doi.org/10.1080/09687599.2012.710008
Milton, D., Gurbuz, E., & López, B. (2022). The “double empathy problem”: Ten years on. Autism, 26(8), 1901–1903. https://doi.org/10.1177/13623613221129123
Morris, C., Detrick, J. J., & Peterson, S. M. (2021). Participant assent in behavior analytic research: Considerations for participants with autism and developmental disabilities. Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis, 54(4), 1300–1316. https://doi.org/10.1002/jaba.859
