I adopted a nonverbal boy with autism when he was 9. He's done so well, we now sing in a choir together.

• Dee Marks adopted her son with autism, CJ, when he was 9. She said he was "fearful" and nonverbal.
• She said CJ was doing great at the age of 20 and had learned to communicate through singing.
• This is Marks and CJ's story, as told to Jane Ridley.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Dee Marks. It has been edited for length and clarity.

My son, CJ, and I belong to an adult community choir, and we're putting on a show in May. We're performing our own duet in the middle of "A Million Dreams" from "The Greatest Showman."

It's going to be super exciting — an incredible moment that I could never have imagined when I adopted CJ when he was 9. He has autism and was nonverbal at the time. 

Now, at 20, he's a gifted singer, a keen athlete, and an amateur cook. He's about to start employment training. Me and my daughter supported him all the way. But he had to do the hard part himself — finally letting go of his fears so he could trust people. That's why he's able to do everything that he does today.

I looked into adoption for the second time in 2011. I was determined to find a younger sister for my adopted daughter, a high-school senior with special needs. When the child services department in our city came back to me, however, they asked if I would take an "unadoptable" little boy. 

It was as if CJ were saying, 'If you can't get near me, you can't hurt me'

I was a single mom with no experience with boys.

It ripped my heart out. I work with kids who have disabilities and don't believe that any child is "unadoptable." So I said, "OK, tell me a little bit about him." They told me he was 8 ½ years old with blue eyes and red hair.

I colored my hair red. I loved red hair. So I said, "OK, I'll make it work."

My daughter and I met CJ twice before he came to stay with us for good. He was nonverbal and not potty trained. He'd experienced trauma and behaved in a way that was intended to keep people as far away as possible. It was as if he were saying, "If you can't get near me, you can't hurt me." 

He went to a special-needs school at the time and sat in the back of the classroom. It didn't even try to teach him because of his challenging behavior. He couldn't read or write. But we found him the type of education that he needed, riding the bus and mixing with his neurotypical peers. He'd have occupational therapy, speech therapy, and physical therapy. He didn't know how to throw, kick, or catch a ball because he'd never had the opportunity to try.

I got a lot of Tonka toys — the ones you'd buy for a toddler where the parts don't fall off. He'd pick up the trucks and just spin the wheels. At first, I took that as stimming, or self-stimulatory behavior. In reality, he didn't know how to put them on the ground and make them roll. But we helped him learn.

I'd put him to bed every day and say, 'Mommy loves you'

I wasn't able to hug him. But from day one, he allowed me to sit next to him. My background in mental health taught me to sit at his level and not stand over him. 

I signed the formal adoption papers on his ninth birthday with the help of the Wendy's Wonderful Kids program. 

The first year was rough. He was sleeping only between 11:30 p.m. and 3 a.m. I had a baby monitor in his room. I was worried that he'd run out of the back door during the night. Every day, when I put him into bed, I'd say, "Mommy loves you." But there were many nights when I cried to myself, asking whether I was doing the right things for him.

It took baby steps. I'd say, "Let's walk around the neighborhood so we can walk safely." And then, when he'd built that skill up, we could go to the park, the library, and, eventually, the grocery store. It was a long process.

I'd also support him in school. I wanted him to understand positive behaviors. He'd always sought negative attention, so we'd give him praise every 30 seconds. Even in the middle of a meltdown, when his left leg was the only thing that was sitting still, I'd say, "Your left leg is doing a great job of being calm."

This kid a great smile, and he got excited about my excitement

He was very food-motivated, so we taught him the alphabet using Cheez-It crackers with letters. I'd put all the crackers in a bowl, and he could put one in his mouth if he told me the letter. The school gave him flashcard tests, but flashcards meant nothing to him. I said, "I'll bring you some boxes of Cheez-Its," and school personnel said, "Holy cow, this kid knows the alphabet."

CJ started track in seventh grade because it was inclusive and didn't require tryouts. Someone always ran with him for cross country, but he set the pace. At his last meet in his senior year, he took two minutes off his best time. I think he understood that I was proud of him. This kid has got a smile, and he got excited off of my excitement. He knew that he had done something great. 

Music really turned things around in terms of communication. He's always loved music, and before he could talk, he could lip-sync. One day, when he was about 15, I heard CJ singing "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'." He was stomping through the living room and singing at the same time. He still does a lot of scripted talking and talks about himself in the third person — something we're working on — but it's functional communication. He's come so far.

Singing is his main outlet. It's something he's good at. We've both joined the choir, and he's started singing lessons. It's helped him get out into the real world.

He's been working in eldercare and is about to start job training. He enjoys everything — as long as there's interaction with people who truly are accepting of him. It's all about CJ feeling safe before he has enough confidence to take some risks. 

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