It’s incredibly difficult to understand the needs of a small child. When they can’t articulate what they feel, their emotions spill out as frustration, tears, and silence. As parents, we stand there helplessly, loving fiercely, guessing constantly, learning to communicate without words. My own life began in silence.
According to my parents and family, I refused to speak until the age of four. I pointed, gestured, and relied entirely on instinct to get what I needed. Eventually, my parents sent me to speech therapy. I was lucky, the woman who taught me to speak was extraordinary. The family joke is that she never found my off switch. Now I’m starting a podcast. Go figure.
Today, I am a husband and a father. I’m married to the most resilient warrior I know, my wife, Mandi. Together we have a miracle baby, our daughter Ashira. Ashira recently turned two. Her birthday was quiet and intimate, surrounded only by her parents and grandparents. We had a special cake and took photos we’ll show her one day when she’s older. Her first birthday, a year earlier, was very different, filled with friends, neighbours, and noise.
We live in Cape Town now, a city with social rules very different from Johannesburg. It’s beautiful, but it can be lonely. We are a strong family, yet much of our time here has been spent together in silence. Making and maintaining friendships has not come easily.
Ashira’s birth coincided with our move up the coast to a small Jewish community made up mostly of young families. We were ecstatic. Prams everywhere, kids everywhere. It felt like belonging. Looking back, I realise how naïve that hope was.
While community didn’t quite take shape, our immediate neighbours seemed kind enough. Across from us lived a young couple. He was controlling. Their fights were loud and frequent. We heard far more than we wanted to. Still, on the surface, we were friendly.
After their relationship ended and he moved out, we took her under our wing, not just as neighbours, but as fellow human beings. She was alone, fragile, and visibly anxious. We grew fond of her. She, in turn, grew especially fond of Ashira. She visited our home almost daily after work. She brought small gifts and trinkets. Once Ashira started walking, she would run to the neighbour’s sliding door calling out for her friend.
It was innocent. It was beautiful. Shortly after Ashira’s first birthday, the neighbour’s parents came to visit from out of town. We were excited to finally meet them. We assumed the feeling was mutual. It wasn’t. For weeks, their sliding glass door remained closed. No visits. No greetings. No acknowledgement. Slowly, uncomfortably, it became clear that they didn’t want to engage with us at all.
On Christmas Eve, we decided to make peace the only way we knew how, kindness. We baked them a cheesecake and walked it over. Her mother answered the door. She snarled at us, irritated that she was in her pajamas. We hadn’t asked to come in. We hadn’t expected conversation. We simply wished them well and handed over the cake.
We walked back to our apartment stunned. It was clear: we had crossed an invisible line. After the holidays, there was no apology. No acknowledgement. Our neighbour grew distant. Eventually, after a difficult conversation, the relationship ended abruptly. Ashira didn’t understand.
She would still look toward the sliding door. When she became more confident on her feet, she would walk over and knock. No answer. Silence. At around eighteen months old, Ashira loved running around the complex with Mandi. They passed this neighbour many times. Ashira would call out to her. She would run toward her.
The neighbour would turn away and walk off. Not from us, from a child. How do you explain to a toddler that someone they loved has decided they no longer exist? We enrolled Ashira in the local nursery school. Slowly, she found one small friendship. One. Then, without warning, that child left. The family moved out of town.
Ashira ran around the school looking for her friend. Silence again. By her second birthday, we noticed a shift. Our bubbly, joyful little human, had become shy and reserved. She struggles to speak in full sentences. We often do not understand what she needs. People say two-year-olds are sponges. I believe that. Silence is deafening when you don’t yet have words.
No parent is perfect. Life isn’t linear. People can be careless and never realise the ripple effect their actions have on others, especially children. I can’t protect Ashira from everything. No parent can. What I can do is give her tools. Tools shaped by my own experiences of silence, confusion, and learning to speak, not just with words, but with empathy.
The neighbour has since moved out. Ashira’s little school friend is gone. And in 2026, we’ll be sending her to a bigger school, with the hope that she’ll find many friendships and many voices. If there’s one thing I believe deeply, it’s that kindness costs nothing, but its absence can cost a child dearly.
My hope for that young neighbour is that her future children are never silenced or disregarded by any adult. That she never has to pick up the pieces of a broken little heart. As for my daughter, Happy birthday, baby girl. Daddy loves you very much.