My Response to the Telepathy Tapes
Boy sitting on floor looking above.
Disclaimer: The views and reflections in this blog are my own and do not represent medical or therapeutic claims. While I am a licensed speech-language pathologist, this post is not a recommendation for any particular treatment method. It is a personal narrative intended to encourage curiosity, compassion, and open dialogue. I continue to follow ethical standards outlined by ASHA and state licensure boards. This post is shared from the heart, not the clinic.
When Silence Speaks
A colleague sent me a link to The Telepathy Tapes podcast. She still works in public schools. I’m now in private practice. She knew I’d be interested, and she was right. I put off listening to it at first, let the link sit in my messages for a while. Not because I wasn’t curious, but because I’ve spent my whole career already straddling the space between two worlds: the clinically-validated and the quietly mysterious.
Somehow, I knew by just listening that this would probably push me over the edge more heavily in one way than the other. I’m a speech-language pathologist with nearly 20 years of experience, I’m also an artist, a spiritual seeker, a QHHT practitioner, and a woman who strongly believes science and spirituality are not opposites but two rivers flowing toward the same sea.
For those who don’t know, the viral Telepathy Tapes podcast explores the phenomenon of non-speaking autistic individuals who appear to communicate complex thoughts through facilitated spelling and possibly telepathic connection.
Image Credit: The Telepathy Tapes Podcast. Listen here.
I would assume most professionals in my field dismiss the possibility. Maybe I’m wrong. But some of us, especially those who’ve spent thousands of hours with nonverbal children, have quietly wondered, witnessed, or maybe even participated in something... different.
When I finally decided to listen, I felt awe. Then fear. Then deep, deep grief.
Because if this is real, even partially real, then we’ve gotten it so very wrong.
I thought of one young man in particular from a time before IDEA regulations became so dogmatic and divisive. Almost an adult, he still didn’t respond consistently to yes/no questions. He rejected PECs or any symbol-based system. All speech therapy and related services had pretty much failed him. At times, he was physically aggressive, and he wasn’t small in stature; eloping, choking, scratching, and sometimes punching carried real consequences for those who spent time with him. But when he was regulated, we had a connection that couldn’t be charted. A silent understanding. A shared peace.
I created a calm space in my office back then when snoezelen rooms weren’t the common place sensory sanctuaries that are found in autism safe spaces now. I’d purchased and constructed my own filtered lights to decrease the fluorescent flashing, gathered sensory materials like weighted animals and silicone squishies, and in the quiet, we’d just sit. Together. Because in my office, he didn’t hurt other people or himself, so he took many, many long breaks from his classroom and often took himself down the hall to my office to sit.
On a whim, I began reading aloud to him from books and magazines I brought from home that were age-appropriate. This wasn’t therapy, this was just our daily peaceful time of being in the same place. Eventually, just to see, I made a crude spelling board with a piece of printer paper and a magic marker. Not as a therapy tool, but as a gesture of connection when nothing else had worked. One day, while I was reading about Africa, he spelled out "Bogatanga." I didn’t know the word, I could have dismissed it, but his mischievous smile and the spark in his eyes made me Google it. It turned out to be a real city in Ghana. He couldn’t see the text. He couldn’t read. Or so I thought.
After that single event, he began to regulate more at school. He stopped eloping. He looked forward to our time together. But I left mid-year due to a high-risk pregnancy. I left him. And I have always wondered if he lost his voice when I left. I think about him often; he’s probably in his thirties, and I hope he’s connecting to someone.
Listening to the podcast, I teared up. I cried for him. For his family. For the many other kids I’ve served after him. For the possibility of countless stories silenced in the name of scientific credibility. For my voice, which I’ve quieted to keep my job, keep my license, keep my safety.
But here’s what I know: I’ve always talked to kids like they were competent, even when other staff gave me side eyes. Even when their IEPs said “severe.” Even when data didn’t reflect it. Because I felt them. And if you’ve ever felt that knowing, you understand what I’m saying.
So what do we do with this?
We don’t throw out science. But we stop weaponizing it against the human connection. We stop pretending we know everything just because we have degrees. We admit that our systems, medical, educational, and therapeutic, are not infallible. And we create space for intuition to walk alongside evidence.
Here Are Some Strategies I’m Committing To:
Presume competence always. Even when it feels uncomfortable. Even when it’s not “data-driven.”
Create calm, sensory-considerate environments. Regulation matters more than rigid routines.
Speak to nonverbal individuals like they understand every word, because maybe they do.
Let families lead the conversation. They live it. We are visitors.
Stay open, stay curious, stay humble. If it scares you, it might be important.
I’m scared to share this. I’m scared of judgment, professional backlash, of losing credibility. But being silent is no longer an option. If you’re a parent, a practitioner, or a seeker, you’re not alone. I’m here. Let’s listen together. Let’s rebuild together.
No system should be locked in. No soul should be locked out.
With heart,
Meghan