We’d been waiting for this moment for over two years.

Every therapy session, every flash card, every silly sound we’d repeat a hundred times—just hoping something would click. He babbled, giggled, hummed along sometimes, but no clear words. And I told myself to be patient. I told myself that when he was ready, he’d let the world hear him.

But not knowing when? That’s the hardest part.

His big sister, Alina, never stopped trying. She made up lullabies for him at bedtime, sang songs in the car, even performed a “concert” in our living room with her toy microphone just to make him smile. He’d clap, or wiggle in his seat, but never said anything.

Then, one night, she sat beside his stroller and started softly singing that silly made-up song of hers—something about sunshine and spaghetti (don’t ask me why, it’s her thing). And he just… looked at her. Really looked.

And then, he said it. One simple word: “Sshhh-nee.”

My heart skipped a beat. I wasn’t sure if I had imagined it, but I could hear it as clear as day. “Sshhh-nee.” A perfect imitation of Alina’s tune, but more importantly, it was a word. His first word.

Alina stopped mid-verse, her eyes wide, waiting for him to say something again. And there it was—another attempt. “Sshhh-nee.” Louder this time. More deliberate.

I dropped to my knees beside him, feeling a lump in my throat. I wrapped him up in my arms, holding him as tears welled up in my eyes. “Did you hear that, buddy? Did you just say your first word?”

Alina’s face lit up. “He said it! He really said it! It’s my song! He’s singing it back!” She jumped up, giggling with joy. “He said sunny! He said it, Mom!”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was such a simple thing—just a word, one tiny syllable—but it felt like everything I had been working toward for two years had culminated in this beautiful moment.

As parents of a child with Down syndrome, we’d faced our fair share of challenges. There were days when I’d feel discouraged, questioning why things seemed harder for him. Why wasn’t he speaking yet? Why didn’t he understand like other kids his age? But then moments like this would happen, and it would remind me that we were moving forward. Slowly, but surely.

That night, we celebrated in our small living room. Alina performed a concert just for him, and he clapped along with her as if it were the best thing in the world. We didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but at that moment, everything felt perfect.

But as the weeks went by, something strange started happening. He didn’t just stop at “sunny.” Slowly, more sounds started to emerge—though not always the ones we expected. One morning, while playing with his blocks, he looked up at me and said, “Moo-mee.” I stared at him, frozen, before I realized he was trying to say “Mommy.”

Then came “Da-da” a few days later, followed by “Eee-sah” for Alina. They were simple words, but each one felt like a victory. Every new word, every new sound, felt like a step forward in his journey—a journey we had all been on together.

But just as I was starting to get used to the idea of him growing and developing at his own pace, something unexpected happened. We received a call from his speech therapist. She sounded urgent.

“Hey, I just wanted to let you know something I noticed in our last session with Liam. I’ve been going over his progress, and I’m a little concerned.”

My heart sank. “Concerned? About what?”

“Well, he seems to be saying a lot of words, but they’re often a bit mixed up. Like, he’s repeating sounds from his sister’s songs or things he hears around him, but there’s no clear connection to the actual words he’s learning. It’s almost as though he’s mimicking without fully grasping what he’s saying.”

I paused, my mind racing. “But he said ‘Mommy’ and ‘Alina.’ And he said ‘sunny’ when she was singing.”

“I know. And I’m not saying he won’t get there,” she continued. “But I want to make sure we’re not getting too ahead of ourselves. We may need to adjust his therapy a bit.”

The conversation left me feeling conflicted. For weeks, I had been so excited about the progress Liam was making. Yet, the therapist’s concerns planted a seed of doubt in my mind. Was he really saying those words? Or was it all just an imitation, a series of sounds without real meaning behind them?

The next few days felt heavy. I started second-guessing everything. Every word he said, I would analyze, wondering if it was really him understanding or just a cute little parrot imitation. Was I pushing him too hard? Had I set my expectations too high?

But then, one evening, something happened that changed everything.

Alina was sitting next to Liam, as she always did, singing her silly little tune about sunshine and spaghetti. She finished the song, and to my shock, Liam looked up at her, his big blue eyes full of intent, and said something that stopped my heart.

“Alina.”

It was clear. It was his sister’s name, said with purpose. There was no doubt about it. He understood.

I could barely contain my tears as I scooped him up and held him tightly. “You said it, buddy,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You said her name!”

Alina stared at him in disbelief. “Did he? Did he really just say my name?”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. “Yes, honey. He did. He’s really getting it.”

From that moment on, I stopped doubting Liam. Every word he said, every sound he made, became a new chapter in his story—a story that I had almost let myself miss because of fear and doubt. He wasn’t just mimicking anymore. He was connecting. He was learning.

A few months later, we stood in the living room, Alina and I clapping our hands as Liam, with a grin, confidently shouted, “Alina!” while pointing to her across the room. And then, “Mommy!” followed shortly after. He even started using “sunny” every morning when the sun peeked through the curtains.

But then came the real twist.

One afternoon, Liam was playing with his toys while I cleaned up. As usual, Alina was practicing one of her made-up songs, singing louder than ever, trying to coax her brother into singing along. This time, instead of mimicking her, Liam did something unexpected.

He turned toward her, his eyes wide, and said, “Sings.”

It wasn’t much, but it was clear. Liam had just acknowledged what Alina was doing in a way that made sense. He was learning, not just the words, but what they meant. It was a recognition that he had never given before—he understood her actions. And for me, that was more than just a word. It was a milestone.

As Liam continued to grow, so did his vocabulary. Every day, he would surprise us with a new word or a new connection. And it was during these moments, when my doubts and fears started to fade, that I realized something crucial: progress comes at its own pace, in its own time. Every little victory, whether big or small, mattered. And even if there were moments when I doubted, those doubts didn’t erase the growth we had already seen.

The karmic twist, the life lesson I took from all of this, was simple: patience, faith, and love go a long way. I had to trust that Liam would get there on his own time, not on anyone else’s schedule. His journey was his, and the most important thing I could do was support him, no matter how slow or fast the steps were.

If you’re facing a challenge in your life, whether it’s with a child or something else, remember this: growth doesn’t always happen in the way you expect, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening. Every step forward is a step worth celebrating.

If you know someone who needs a reminder to trust the process, share this with them. Sometimes, all we need is a little encouragement to keep going.