I’ll never forget the day someone first mentioned Selective Mutism to me.
“Don’t look so worried! It’s probably just Selective Mutism. She’ll grow out of it.”
Those words were spoken casually, as we were leaving nursery. I walked to my car, repeating them over and over in my head.
Selective what? Selective Mutism? What on earth was that?
I had no idea then just how much those words would come to mean to our family, or how long and difficult our journey ahead would be.
The Beginning
It was 2011. Our beautiful three-year-old daughter, Molly, was meeting all her milestones and more. She had been out of nappies since the age of one, was beginning to memorise the alphabet and could count to 30. She was bright, observant and full of life.
At home, she was a happy, funny, chatty little girl with my husband and me. But whenever we went out to meet friends and their toddlers, something changed. Molly would shut down completely, clinging tightly to me.
On warm summer days, while the other children ran around, climbed, slid down the slides and giggled with delight, Molly would sit on my knee, facing away from everyone. She looked uncomfortable and frightened. No amount of gentle encouragement could persuade her to join in. I assumed she was simply shy. After all, some children take longer to find their feet socially. There were other things, too, that I couldn’t quite understand. Molly couldn’t bring herself to say “Grandma” or “Grandad”, despite being happy and comfortable with them. Instead, she would tug at their sleeves or tap their arms to get their attention. My mum desperately wanted to hear those precious words, but she never showed her disappointment. She adored Molly unconditionally.
Molly’s world was full of teddies. She would spend hours chatting to them, dressing them in dolls’ clothes and treating them as her little friends – as many children do. I loved putting on puppet shows for her, giving each teddy its own voice and personality.
Looking back, I realise that those teddies were so much more than toys. They were a source of comfort, companionship and, eventually, a bridge to the world around her.
Nursery
In 2012, Molly started attending our tiny village nursery and first school for three mornings a week. I asked the nursery staff whether I could accompany her and volunteer, hoping to support her and help her feel more comfortable.
Molly clung to me and her favourite teddy. She couldn’t bear to leave my side.
One day, a teacher suggested that I leave her for an hour to break what she described as her strong attachment to me. I was hesitant, but I trusted her experience and agreed. I was told I could wait in the adjoining classroom, where I could still see Molly through a window.
What I witnessed was heartbreaking.
Molly sat rigid against the wall, clutching her teddy, completely silent and visibly terrified. Teachers approached her, gently encouraging her to join in activities, but she couldn’t move.
This was repeated a few times over the following weeks. Each time, Molly sat frozen against the wall, silent, overwhelmed by fear.
Over time, Molly was eventually able to stay at nursery without me. She never spoke, but she was starting to join in activities alongside the other children.
Then came that comment from the headteacher as we left nursery one afternoon: “Don’t look so worried! It’s probably just Selective Mutism. She’ll grow out of it.”
When I got home, I searched the internet. Suddenly, everything made sense. I called my husband. “Wow. Yes, that’s it,” he said. “So, what do we do now?”
Diagnosis
I contacted our GP, who referred us to CAMHS. After weeks of appointments, we received a letter in the post confirming a diagnosis of high-functioning autism spectrum disorder and Selective Mutism. The psychiatrist explained that Selective Mutism was common in autistic children and reassured us that Molly would grow out of it in time.
And that was it.
No guidance. No strategies. No support plan. No advice about how to help our daughter navigate a world that felt so frightening to her.
Just a letter and a goodbye.
I knew I couldn’t just wait for things to improve. I needed to understand more and find ways to help her. That’s when I discovered SMIRA in 2012.
Back then, SMIRA was a small community and I soon got to know its members. I felt I had found people who really understood. People who had lived, or who were living, through similar experiences and shared the same worries, frustrations and hopes.
Phil and Lindsay became our scaffolding. They helped educate us, guide us and, most importantly, give us hope. Their support made an enormous difference during those early years when we felt so lost. One Christmas, we were very privileged to receive a phone call from the founder of SMIRA – Alice Sluckin. She said she had been touched after reading how Molly preferred to believe her teddies became magical at Christmas and delivered all her presents rather than a Santa Claus! She was also interested to hear how Molly’s teddy became her voice at nursery.
Finding a Way to Communicate
At nursery, the staff unfortunately refused to implement the sliding-in technique recommended by SMIRA, explaining that they didn’t have the staff or space. I was deeply disappointed, but I refused to give up. I volunteered whenever I could and did everything possible to ensure Molly was never put under pressure to speak. I also persuaded the staff to allow her to bring her favourite teddy every day.
Molly’s teacher began communicating through Molly’s teddy rather than asking Molly questions, feeling that it would help take the pressure off speaking to her directly. Then, one day, something amazing happened. The teacher asked her teddy a question, and Molly lifted him up and softly answered in his little voice, “Yes”.
It was just one word. But it was a breakthrough.
The teachers began to understand that the teddy could help Molly communicate, provided she wasn’t expected to give more than a simple answer.
When Molly moved into First School, she remained in the same classroom, with the same children, and her teddy continued to be her voice.
One morning, Molly’s teacher called me. She sounded really excited. Molly had apparently become so absorbed in painting that she had put her teddy down. When the teacher asked her what she was painting, Molly answered in her own voice.
From that moment, Molly gradually began speaking without her teddy.
Her answers were usually just one or two quietly spoken words, but her voice was emerging.
After-School Meltdowns
Although Molly was beginning to speak at school, the emotional toll on her was immense.
Every afternoon, when I collected her, she would get into the car and close the door before suddenly erupting into tears. She would scream, grab at my arms while I was driving, thrash about, kicking the front of the car.
When we got home, the distress continued. She would scream, cry and kick until she was completely exhausted. I knew that our little girl was struggling terribly. Phil used the analogy of a pressure cooker releasing its steam to help me understand what Molly was experiencing. It made complete sense. She had been holding everything inside all day, only to release it when she finally reached the safety of home.
Friendships
We were fortunate to have a neighbour whose daughter, Anna, was about five years older than Molly. She came to our house and played with Molly almost every day.
Anna never seemed to mind that Molly was silent when she visited. She was wonderful with her, instinctively understanding what Molly wanted to do and what would make her laugh.
There was no pressure to speak. No awkward questions. No expectation that Molly should behave differently.
They just played. I believe Anna helped Molly develop her confidence in people. She showed her that friendships could be safe, joyful and uncomplicated. Molly loved her company, despite not being able to speak to her.
At around age ten, Molly started Middle School. The staff were supportive and ensured she was always with the same five, lovely girls. Gradually, those girls became her closest friends.
Over the years in Middle School, Molly began speaking to her teachers and friends. She was never confident or chatty, but she was communicating. She was making progress, in her own time and in her own way.
For a while, things felt hopeful.
High School
In 2022, Molly started High School. With careful planning, she was placed in the same classes as her Middle School friends. But after a few weeks, her friends began going their separate ways.
Suddenly, Molly was alone.
She spent her breaks hiding in the school toilets. When she came home, she was angry, distressed and emotionally overwhelmed.
Ten weeks into High School, we made the heartbreaking decision to withdraw her.
We discovered that Molly was self-harming as a way of coping. Despite our efforts, there was nothing the school could put in place that adequately supported her.
It took many months at home for her to begin finding her happy self again.
Today, Molly has an education package at home and studies with an online high school that she enjoys. She is learning in an environment where she feels safe, understood and accepted. And that, after everything, is what matters most.
Hope
Our journey has been far from straightforward. There have been years of worry, heartache, uncertainty and difficult decisions. There have also been moments of joy that we will treasure forever. We have learned that progress cannot be forced. It cannot be measured against other children or dictated by a timetable.
Molly made her greatest progress when she felt safe. When she knew there was no pressure to speak.
We learned that a teddy could be a voice, that a friendship could build confidence, and that one little word could represent an enormous achievement.
Molly is still finding her way, but has made enormous progress. Her journey is her own, and we continue to learn alongside her.
We will always be grateful to SMIRA, who helped us navigate this journey, and who reminded us that there is hope.
Molly is a pseudonym
