What Apraxia Really Feels Like (From People Who Live It)

If you’re parenting a child with apraxia, you’ve probably seen it: the understanding in their eyes, the effort in their body—and the disconnect that happens anyway.

Apraxia isn’t about not knowing. It’s about knowing exactly what you want to do or say, while your body won’t reliably follow through. Many autistic spellers and nonspeaking individuals describe it as having clear thoughts trapped behind pathways that don’t always cooperate.

One of the hardest parts is how inconsistent apraxia can be. Your child may climb, run, laugh, or type with ease one day, and struggle the next to speak, point, or initiate movement. This can be confusing and heartbreaking, especially when others assume that inconsistency means lack of effort. It doesn’t.

Speech, in particular, can be incredibly hard. It requires fast, precise motor coordination, and for many children with apraxia, it’s simply not the most reliable way to communicate. That’s why so many find relief and freedom through spelling or AAC—methods that slow things down and honor how their nervous system works. Organizations like the International Association for Spelling as Communication (I-ASC) share and amplify these lived experiences, reminding us that motor differences are often mistaken for cognitive ones. Some great blogs written by apraxic individuals and those who support them:

• https://i-asc.org/six-things-you-should-know-about-apraxia/

• https://i-asc.org/apraxia-is-no-joke/

• https://i-asc.org/understanding-apraxia-the-importance-in-autism-and-other-sensory-movement-disorders/

Parents often tell me they feel stuck between advocating for their child and trying to help the world understand them. Listening to spellers and nonspeaking voices can be grounding. Over and over, they tell us what helps most:

• Being believed

• Being given time

• Having pressure reduced

• Feeling safe and regulated first

• Having reliable access to communication

  
  

Apraxia is not defiance. It’s not laziness. And it’s not something your child would choose.

When we shift from asking “Why won’t they?” to “How can I support access?”, something softens—for our children and for us. Your child is not broken. Their voice is there. And when we listen to those who live this experience, we learn how to truly hear them.