Friendship Doesn’t Need Words—Just Love

Every day after school, like many parents, I ask my daughter the usual questions:
"Who did you sit with at lunch?"
"Who did you play with at recess?"
"Did anything funny happen today?"

Since the start of the school year, Brooklyn has always answered with a smile and one name: Mia.

Mia.
The name has become so familiar, it’s part of our daily rhythm.
Mia is her lunch buddy, her recess companion, and clearly, her closest friend. I’ve heard about her nearly every afternoon—always mentioned with warmth, laughter, and a sparkle in Brooklyn’s eyes.

But today, I finally got to see that friendship for myself.

I had the opportunity to spend time at Brooklyn’s school during lunch and recess, observing her second-grade class in action. The cafeteria buzzed with life—kids chatting, trays clattering, laughter echoing off the walls. Amid the chaos, Brooklyn proudly brought me over to her group of friends.

One by one, her classmates came to the table—smiling, waving, full of joy. And then Mia arrived.

She walked over quietly and sat right next to Brooklyn, who scooted over instinctively to make space for her without missing a beat. No words were exchanged, no instructions given—just a natural, seamless moment of inclusion.

Her friends greeted Mia the same way they greeted each other. No awkwardness. No hesitation. No pity. Just joy. Just friendship.

It wasn’t until that moment that I realized something Brooklyn had never thought to mention: Mia has special needs. She is nonverbal.

But what struck me most wasn’t the fact that Mia didn’t speak—it was how completely irrelevant that fact was to Brooklyn and her friends.

No one treated her differently.
No one slowed down or simplified things.
No one labeled her or put her in a separate category.

To them, she was just Mia. Their friend. Fully and wonderfully included in their world.

She didn’t need words to belong. Her presence was more than enough. The girls passed her snacks, smiled at her, shared jokes that didn’t need explaining. They understood her sounds, her facial expressions, her energy—like a language only they shared.

At one point, I leaned down and quietly asked Brooklyn, “How do you always know what Mia needs?”

Without skipping a beat, she answered, matter-of-factly:
“I just know what her different sounds mean.”

No fuss. No special training. No adult intervention.

Just the kind of empathy and connection that comes naturally when your heart is open.

Brooklyn never told me Mia was nonverbal—because to her, it didn’t matter. Mia wasn’t her “special” friend. She was just her friend. Period.

That moment stayed with me long after the recess bell rang.

Because in a world that often overcomplicates difference…
Where adults hesitate, unsure how to connect with what they don’t fully understand…
Where fear of “getting it wrong” keeps people at arm’s length…

A group of second graders showed me what real inclusion looks like.

It’s not about programs or policies.
It’s not about saying the perfect thing.
It’s about presence. It’s about openness. It’s about love.

They reminded me that connection doesn’t always require words.
Sometimes it just needs a quiet understanding. A warm smile. A seat at the table.

These kids didn’t need guidance or permission to include someone different. They just did it. Because children, when left to follow their instincts, are often far wiser than we give them credit for.

As I watched them race across the playground—Brooklyn and Mia side by side, Mia’s laughter ringing through the air—I felt something deep settle in my chest.

Gratitude. Hope. Pride.

In that moment, I saw a future that is more accepting. More empathetic. More human.

All because one little girl knew what many adults still struggle to understand:

Friendship doesn’t need words.
It just needs love.