By Linda Orleans 
I was walking into the neighborhood dry cleaners when another mom was walking out. She smiled and asked, “How is Danielle? Is she still making progress?”
I stood there, my coat slipping down my arm. For a moment, I didn’t answer. My mind searched for something that would fit the space between us.
Danielle is my 23-year-old daughter. She has autism and complex medical needs, including Crohn’s.
“How is Danielle?” is a question I know how to answer. A simple fine, okay, or hanging in there is usually enough.
“Is she still making progress?” is different. It asks for more than a passing reply.
I answered as best I could at the time. “Sometimes.” Then I changed the subject. “How are you all doing?” Polite. A pivot.
Progress often implies continued forward motion, milestones reached, and an unspoken comparison to where others are expected to be.
How do you define progress for someone whose strengths and needs shift day to day, shaped by pain, energy, and sensory load rather than constant forward motion?
Before becoming a parent, I was a social worker. I had spent years sitting with other families in uncertainty, without needing to reach for a definite timeline. I believed I understood what it meant to live without clear markers. But I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel in my own home, with my own child.
Some weeks, my daughter speaks in full sentences and carries out complex tasks like painting scenes filled with detail, solving a crossword puzzle faster than I ever could, or preparing a family meal. She also types reflections that stay with me, including one that reads: “This is sometimes a bumpy road. That’s why we all need seatbelts. LOL. It’s so worth getting to the destination of hope, knowledge, connection, and fun.” I come back to her words often.
During harder stretches, pain, exhaustion, or sensory overwhelm leave her crying out, pushing past the point of words.
Even on days when she seems steady, a small change in her movement or voice can put me on alert. I watch for the loss of words, a sudden high-pitched scream, signs of pain, or involuntary movements, moments when her body tells me something is wrong before she can say it.
At times, she can answer when I ask her to type. But not always. Not when that becomes a struggle too. So I’ve stopped asking. If she wants to tell me something, or is able in that moment, she will. If not, she’ll find her way back to words when she’s ready.
The first time she typed, “I’m always listening, even when people think they’re whispering,” then referenced something we had said hours earlier, I was pulled back to what I had always known. I looked at her. Those big, beautiful brown eyes met mine, and I felt a rush of gratitude for the connection. I said, “I’ve always known that you’re right here with us.” She smiled.
A while back, I stopped tracking how many questions she answers or tasks she completes. Instead, I began noticing what was present in the moment. The glances, the smiles, the gestures, and the words.
I also spend less time justifying her needs now and more time surrounding her with people who don’t need detailed explanations. They sit beside her and meet her where she is, without trying to pull her somewhere else. More than once, someone has told me her hugs are comforting.
When we make space for the full reality of her experience, the joy, the love, the pain, the setbacks, and the resilience required to move through them, we allow room for growth and true connection. In honoring that reality for her, I understand that development isn’t something to measure against others. It’s shaped by what each person carries.
Parents are used to measuring things like grades, accolades, or milestones. Questions about what comes next. Who is excelling. Who is falling behind. The word progress doesn’t create that pressure, but it does expose it, asking us to sort lives into forward or behind, improving or stalled, in moments never meant to hold that much weight.
My daughter is making progress, just not in a way that can be summed up between hangers and receipts, or measured on demand.
by Vanessa France 
by Cristina Schnizler 
