What ABA Therapy Actually Looks Like

Since April is Autism Awareness Month, I wanted to spend some time talking about some of the big topics that come up when people talk about autism.

One of the first things many families hear about after an autism diagnosis is ABA therapy.

ABA stands for Applied Behavior Analysis, and if you’ve spent any time in autism parenting spaces, you’ve probably heard a lot of different opinions about it.

For some people, it can sound intimidating or overly clinical. For others, it’s something they’ve never heard of at all.

So I thought it might be helpful to share what ABA therapy actually looks like in our family’s life.

August attends ABA therapy at Mitchell’s Place in their comprehensive program. He goes Monday through Friday from 8:00 in the morning until 3:30 in the afternoon.

During that time, he works closely with two Registered Behavior Technicians (RBTs) who support him throughout the day. Those therapists are supervised by a Board Certified Behavior Analyst (BCBA) who oversees his program and helps guide his goals and progress.

If that sounds very structured, it is.

But what most people don’t realize is that ABA therapy doesn’t just happen at a desk or in a clinical setting. A lot of learning happens through play, movement, and everyday activities.

It might look like:

• practicing communication

• learning how to follow directions

• taking turns during play

• building tolerance for new situations

• developing self-help skills

• learning how to regulate big emotions

In other words, many of the things that come naturally to some kids are things August is intentionally being taught and supported through.

And that support has made a real difference.

Since starting ABA, we’ve seen so much growth in August.

His eye contact has improved, and he’s more engaged with the people around him.

He’s become better at following simple commands and responding when his name is called.

He’s learning how to communicate using an AAC device, which has opened new doors for him to express his needs and connect with others.

We’ve also seen more vocalizations and sounds, which is exciting as his communication continues to develop.

His play skills have grown, including beginning to explore pretend play, which is something that once felt far away.

His social skills are improving, and he’s becoming more comfortable interacting with others.

And one of the biggest changes we’ve noticed is his ability to regulate himself. Moments that once felt overwhelming are becoming more manageable as he learns new ways to cope and respond.

Progress doesn’t happen overnight, and therapy isn’t a magic fix.

But it has been an important piece of support for our family.

It’s also important to acknowledge that ABA can be a debated topic within the autism community, and every autistic person and every family has their own experiences and perspectives.

For our family, ABA has been a tool that helps August learn, grow, and build skills that support his development.

And at the end of the day, that’s what matters most to us.

One of the things autism parenting has taught me is that there isn’t one single path that works for every child.

Every child is different.

Every family is learning as they go.

And for August, ABA therapy has been one of the places where we’ve watched him grow in ways that make us incredibly proud.

The Day We Got The Diagnosis

April 22, 2024.

August was three.

But honestly, that day didn’t start in April. It started when he was about a year old and I began noticing he was behind. He started Early Intervention at 16 months, and from then on therapy appointments just became part of our weekly routine. Like preschool… but with more assessments and fewer goldfish.

We waited almost a year for a full evaluation.

A whole year of wondering.

A whole year of “maybe.”

A whole year of trying not to Google things at 11 p.m. and absolutely Googling them anyway.

By the time we finally had the three long days of testing — several hours at a time — Dakota and I were emotionally exhausted. We were there for every session, nodding like we fully understood everything, while internally spiraling.

We had suspected autism for a while. But suspicion still leaves room for denial. A diagnosis does not.

When the report came, I didn’t want to read it.

Reading it made it official.

Autism Spectrum Disorder.

Level 3.

Very substantial support.

Intellectual impairment.

Severe language delay.

Those words felt…clinical.

I didn’t even really know what “Level 3” meant. I just knew it didn’t sound like “oh, you’ll barely notice.”

Seeing phrases like “severe” and “very substantial support” attached to my three-year-old felt unreal. On paper, it looked terrifying. In real life, he was still the same little boy who lined up his toys and laughed at the exact same part of his favorite show every time like it was brand new.

I’ll be honest — I was having a full menty b.

Not because I didn’t love him.

But because I didn’t know what this meant.

I didn’t know anyone walking this road.

I didn’t know what the future would look like.

Ignorance had been easier. Before the report, I didn’t know how severe it was. Now I did. And that knowledge felt heavy.

The drive home was quiet. There were tears. Dakota was steady beside me — which is impressive considering I was in the passenger seat fighting for emotional stability. He carried us that day.

Reading the full evaluation later was its own experience. Seeing my baby “scored” in black and white hit differently. Clinical language has absolutely no bedside manner.

My faith felt shaken. I had questions I didn’t know how to ask and prayers I didn’t know how to pray.

But here’s what I know now:

It didn’t change his laugh.

The diagnosis didn’t change August.

It didn’t change the way he reaches for me.

It didn’t change the way God sees him.

It gave us language.

It gave us direction.

It gave us a starting point.

April 22 was heavy.

But it wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning of learning how to advocate fiercely, love intentionally, and trust God when the plan looks nothing like the Pinterest board I had in my head.

If you’re in that waiting season — or sitting in a quiet car after an appointment pretending you’re fine while absolutely not fine —

I see you.

April 22 changed our story.

But it didn’t break it.

August, always.