My daughter is thirteen.
And the world wants to pretend she’s not.
They see a girl who doesn’t speak in full sentences.
They see the headphones, the hand flapping, the way she bites her sleeve when she’s anxious.
They see a child—or worse, they see a problem.
But I see her.
I see how hard she works just to get through a single day.
I see how much effort it takes to tolerate the brightness of the grocery store, or the scratchiness of a new shirt.
I see how proud she is when she manages to order her own drink at the coffee shop by pointing at the card we made together.
She lights up.
I remember when she couldn’t tolerate touch at all—and now she curls into my lap sometimes, still small in that teenage body, and I stroke her hair as she hums against my chest.
I remember thinking she didn’t understand what I said.
But she did. She always did.
She just didn’t have the tools to answer.
Now, sometimes, she uses a speech app.
Other times, she signs.
Sometimes, she just looks at me—and I know.
We’ve developed a language that doesn’t always need words.
But that doesn’t stop the world from doubting her.
From talking over her.
From talking about her like she’s not there.
She is so there.
She is kind.
She is funny—dry and mischievous in ways you might miss if you’re not paying attention.
She notices the tiniest details.
She remembers your favorite color after hearing it once.
She gets overwhelmed, yes—but don’t we all?
She’s not broken.
She’s not behind.
She’s just… different. And different doesn’t mean less.
Thirteen is complicated.
Hormones. Mood swings. Tears that come out of nowhere. Wanting more independence. Wanting safety. Wanting both at the same time.
All of that still applies to her.
She’s a teenager.
A growing, changing, wildly beautiful human being who just happens to speak a different kind of language.
And every day, I’m learning to listen better.
Because my daughter is thirteen.
And the world has no idea how lucky it is to have her in it.
