Beyond the Credentials: What a Little Girl Named Ivy Taught Me About Connection, Milestones, and ABA Therapy

I’m Felicia, a Board-Certified Behavior Analyst (BCBA) and one of the founders of Something to Say ABA, opening here in Springfield this Fall and over the next few weeks, I’m going to share how I actually ended up in this field.

I’ll be completely honest: trying to introduce myself online always triggers that distinct, middle-school-level panic of being forced to share "three interesting facts" in a room full of strangers. 😅 But since we are building a genuine community here, I figured it is only fair to pull back the curtain a bit.

The whole story starts long before I ever went to college, studied child development, put any professional letters after my name, or learned how to tie my shoes. It starts way back when I was in the first grade and a little girl named Ivy was born.

Early Lessons in Neurodiversity: Seeing Abilities Beyond a Diagnosis

Ivy’s mom and my mom are best friends, and because Ivy’s family lived a few hours away, our time together was always incredibly special. Although I don’t remember noticing anything different about Ivy when she was an infant, to the adults in the room, the differences likely became obvious early on. As the years ticked by, I would catch the hushed, worried conversations hovering above our heads—murmurs about why she wasn't taking steps or speaking her first words, and the heavy logistics of her daily care.

Just two kids. I definitely didn't know it then, but she was about to change how I saw everything and the entire direction of my life.

But down on the floor, her future wasn't my weight to carry. I had the beautiful privilege of perceiving her purely through the eyes of a child. I didn't have to look ahead or worry about what the next decade would bring; I just got to experience her exactly as she was, entirely in the now. To me, she wasn't a diagnosis. She was just Ivy, a little girl who certainly didn't need a lesson in how to radiate pure, unapologetic joy.

As we both got a little older, I naturally began stepping in to help out and watch her whenever our moms got together for a visit. Because I had spent my early childhood getting to know her long before I ever understood her "deficits," stepping in to babysit never felt out of the ordinary. The extra assistance she required was just part of learning her world—knowing exactly when her sippy cup needed to be filled with chocolate milk, or tracking down her favorite toy, Baby Tad, was just an extension of our friendship.

You don't need a shared vocabulary to know what a good song feels like. Sometimes, all you need is a great playlist, zero expectations, and space to own the dance floor with a friend.

As my perspective matured into my middle school years, I finally began to comprehend the heavy weight of those quiet adult conversations I had overheard as a young kid. I started to truly understand the profound, lifelong realities of her medical and developmental needs.

As I grew to understand the scope of her needs, I also started finding ways to help her practice the things that came so naturally to others. I’d offer a hand as she practiced her walking, until she finally took her own steps at 9 years old.  I’d guide her fingers to hold a spoon so she could feed herself her favorite pasta salad.  I would encourage her to use the sign for "more" when she wanted another splash of chocolate milk. But none of this ever felt like a checklist or a clinical intervention. I was just offering support to a little girl who accomplished milestones on her own timeline.

I certainly didn't have the vocabulary for it back then, but looking back now, I realize what an incredible gift that timeline was. My childhood innocence allowed me to know her first, so when I finally did understand the massive scope of her medical needs, they could never overshadow the vibrant little girl right in front of me. That unique, early perspective was simply something I naturally incorporated into my life as I grew up.

Finding My Calling in Special Education: The Night I Broke the Rules

By the time I was in 4th grade, my time with Ivy had made me certain that I wanted to be a special educator, but it was one specific night in middle school that transferred this desire from a "job when I grow up" to a lifelong calling.

I was getting ready to watch Ivy while our moms went out for the evening. Something I had done, countless times before. Although this time, Amy had been working with Ivy on self-soothing and told me that if she fussed when I put her to bed, I was to let her settle herself down.

I was the kind of kid who treated adult instructions like legally binding contracts. So, when Ivy started crying after I tucked her in, I tried to wait it out. I waited… and waited… but the crying stretched on far longer than I had ever experienced with her.

Floating together without a single care about 'developmental milestones.' No timelines, no charts—just endless pool days and the sheer luck of getting to grow up alongside her.

Finally, breaking my own strict moral code, I tip-toed into her room, figuring a quick peek to make sure she was alright wouldn't hurt.

But everything wasn’t alright. Ivy had fallen out of the foot of the bed. She was sitting there, completely trapped in a little triangle between her mattress, the wall, and an angled recliner. She was screaming, crying out for help with absolute terror on her little face. In my effort to follow the rules, I had inadvertently left this sweet, vulnerable little girl trapped and terrified in the dark. My young brain told me that surly someone would be calling child protective services on me.

I scrambled down to pull her out, scooping her up to calm her racing heart. I felt her instinctively lean her weight into me, trusting me for comfort, and I just held her close until she was completely safe and settled back under her covers.

When our moms got home, I confessed exactly what had happened through heavy tears of guilt. Amy extended so much grace, comforting me and assuring me it wasn’t my fault and that the same thing could have happened if she were home. The realization that even her own mom couldn’t have protected her from getting stuck and that she likely would not have been able to "rescue" her any sooner than I did, made me acutely aware of how incredibly vulnerable a person is when they cannot advocate for themselves—verbally or physically. It lit a fire in me, shifting my focus from just "loving kids" to a fierce desire to help children with profound support needs gain the skills to safely navigate the world.

Redefining Progress: Why Development Isn't a Race Against Milestones

There’s a big difference between doing something for someone and doing it with them. We weren't worried about perfectly mastering a spoon. It was really just two friends teaming up for the next bite of pasta salad.

Over the years, I watched Ivy grow and learn things entirely at her own pace. Did she match the traditional developmental charts? No.

But watching her master skills on her own timeline proved to me early on that growth is not a race against someone else’s clock. Ivy didn’t care about society’s expectations or arbitrary timelines. She was (and still is) entirely, unapologetically herself. She lives a meaningful, triumphant life simply by being Ivy.

While so many conversations centered around what Ivy couldn’t do yet, there were two things she was able to do since day one: Ivy knew exactly how

to love, and she never needed a lesson on how

Ivy completely in her happiest element, proving that the most profound connections aren't taught—they are felt in simple, joyful, and completely unfiltered shared moments like this one with my son from years ago.

to be herself.

Ivy is in her happiest element when she is just existing with the people she loves, proving that the most profound connections aren't taught—they are felt in simple, joyful, and completely unfiltered shared moments.  To this day, Ivy posses a unique and beautiful presence that doesn’t rely on spoken language.  She is living proof that love truly needs no words.

Knowing and loving Ivy shaped how I viewed connection from a very young age. I grew up knowing that communication isn't just about vocal speech or hitting a benchmark; it’s about presence, shared joy, and meeting a person exactly where they are.

My Silent Partner – Lessons I Carry as I Open Something to Say ABA

Despite being in the hospital, Ivy along with Baby Tad is good to go. Proof that sometimes the best kind of comfort is just having your favorite things and a friend to sit with.

I often think back to the quiet, heavy fear her

mom, Amy, likely carried—the worry that the world might not see Ivy’s purpose or that her life might be invisible to those outside our family circle. I want to tell her that her fear was never reality; Ivy’s purpose has always been vibrant and visible. Because I was lucky enough to grow up alongside her, Ivy has become a silent partner in my work. The lessons she taught me have rippled through the children I’ve already had the privilege of supporting, and they will continue to guide the way I support each and every child I meet throughout the rest of my career. Her life is the foundation of how I approach education and therapy.

Ivy taught me that a child's worthiness of love and connection is never contingent on hitting a milestone, and they never need to live up to someone else's expectations of who they should be. She showed me that even though their path might look different than what society expects, every child is deeply capable of expressing love, learning, and sharing their world in their own unique way.

That is why a trusted relationship isn't just

Me and my girl, Ivy hanging out together long before opening my own ABA therapy clinic was even a thought.

a nice bonus in our practice—it is the

essential foundation for all learning and growth. At Something to Say ABA, we are fiercely dedicated to prioritizing trust, joy, and child assent. We also meet each child at their own pace, we don’t try to force children to meet an arbitrary standard set by a timeline that wasn’t designed for them. Because when a kiddo feels safe, truly understood, and completely free to grow on their own terms, that is the exact moment the most beautiful, authentic progress naturally begins.

I will forever be incredibly grateful to Ivy for showing me that the most meaningful bonds go so much deeper than the verbal conversations we hold—and teaching me that no one else gets to dictate our path or define who we are meant to be.

Next, I’ll share a bit about how I discovered my passion for autism. But for today, I'm just celebrating the kids—and the grown-ups—who teach us to slow down, drop the heavy expectations, connect on a level that goes far deeper than words, and learn at our

own beautiful pace.