In a quiet home in Melbourne, Australia, 29-year-old Tim Chan is typing on a bespoke keyboard with the gentle touch of his mother, Sarah, on his shoulder. Diagnosed with autism as a toddler, Tim is non-verbal and relies on facilitated communication (FC) to express himself. Through a text-to-voice tool, he describes the method as his “lifeline,” a tool that has opened up opportunities he never thought possible, like socializing and studying for his PhD.
But behind this seemingly miraculous method is a contentious debate that has divided the disability community, families, and experts worldwide. While some hail facilitated communication as a breakthrough, others argue it is a pseudoscience that raises ethical questions, particularly around authorship and agency. For every success story, there is a cautionary tale, often involving criminal accusations that unravel in court.
Facilitated communication emerged in 1977, pioneered by Australian disability advocate Rosemary Crossley, whose work aimed to empower individuals with little or no functional speech. The method involves a facilitator—often a family member or caregiver—gently guiding the hand, arm, or back of the non-verbal person as they point to letters or words on a keyboard. In theory, this support helps people like Tim Chan communicate what they cannot verbalize.
Crossley first implemented the technique with Anne McDonald, a non-verbal woman with cerebral palsy who had spent most of her life institutionalized. Under Crossley’s guidance, McDonald went from having no formal education to writing eloquent sentences and solving math problems. This dramatic turnaround drew both praise and skepticism. How could someone with no prior education and limited physical control suddenly achieve such feats?
Some colleagues of Crossley, including Dr. Dennis Maginn, the institution’s head pediatrician and psychiatrist, questioned the validity of McDonald’s newfound abilities. Maginn suggested independent testing to confirm the authenticity of the communication. Instead, the situation spiraled into controversy when McDonald, through facilitated communication, accused Maginn of attempting to murder her. The claims were investigated and dismissed, but the damage to Maginn’s career was irrevocable.
Crossley’s own writings reveal that she, too, had initial doubts about whether she might be unintentionally guiding McDonald’s hand. Nevertheless, McDonald went on to live independently, earn a degree, and co-author a book. While McDonald’s achievements were celebrated, her mother remained skeptical, telling the ABC in 2012, “I asked her questions and got nowhere.”
For many individuals like Tim Chan, facilitated communication has provided a sense of autonomy and connection to the world. Marlena Katene, a 33-year-old woman from the Gold Coast, uses the method to communicate her thoughts via a keyboard, assisted by a facilitator named Bert. Katene defends the practice, expressing frustration at the ongoing need for validation and scientific approval.
“Communication is about humanity more than science,” she asserts. For Katene and others who rely on facilitated communication, the method is not just about language—it is about identity and inclusion. She finds it deeply unsettling that so many experts are determined to disprove the efficacy of something that has transformed her life.
Despite its emotional appeal, facilitated communication has faced fierce criticism from scientists who argue that there is no credible evidence to support its legitimacy. Researchers have conducted numerous “double-blind” studies, where the facilitator and communicator are shown different prompts, such as images, before the typing session. If the messages truly came from the person with a disability, they would reflect the communicator’s prompt, not the facilitator’s. In more than 30 such studies, the results consistently showed that the facilitators were, often unknowingly, the authors of the messages.
Howard Shane, an associate professor at Harvard Medical School, has been one of the most vocal critics of the method. “The science just isn’t there,” he states plainly. This scientific consensus is echoed by major medical and psychological associations worldwide, including the American Academy of Pediatrics, the American Psychological Association, and the UK’s National Institute for Health and Care Excellence, all of which have labeled facilitated communication as discredited and potentially harmful.
Beyond academic circles, the method has caused havoc in legal systems. Numerous caregivers and family members have faced accusations of abuse based solely on statements typed through facilitated communication. In each case, the courts found the method unreliable. One such case involved Jose Cordero, a Miami man accused by his non-verbal seven-year-old autistic son, through a facilitator, of sexual abuse. After spending 35 days in jail, the charges were dropped when testing showed the facilitator was the likely author of the accusation.
“Testing proved the facilitator was the author in every trial I’ve been involved in,” says Prof. Shane. In many cases, facilitators or families have refused to participate in scientific testing, citing reasons such as anxiety on the part of the communicator.
Perhaps the most infamous legal case involving facilitated communication was that of Anna Stubblefield, a university professor found guilty in 2015 of aggravated sexual assault against a 33-year-old non-verbal man with cerebral palsy. Stubblefield claimed the two had a consensual romantic relationship, which was confirmed, she argued, through facilitated communication. The court, however, ruled that the testimony derived through facilitated communication was scientifically unreliable.
Although Stubblefield’s conviction was later overturned on procedural grounds, the case brought international attention to the ethical dilemmas surrounding facilitated communication, particularly regarding consent. Stubblefield maintained that she and the man were “intellectual equals in love,” but subsequent tests indicated that the man had the cognitive abilities of an infant, raising further questions about exploitation and the role of facilitators in influencing communication.
Despite the mounting evidence against its efficacy, facilitated communication persists in various parts of the world. Specialized schools, disability centers, and institutes continue to teach and use the method. One of the most prominent institutions still championing facilitated communication is Syracuse University, which houses the Facilitated Communication Institute. Critics like James Todd, a psychology professor at Eastern Michigan University, argue that institutions like Syracuse have a responsibility to disavow the method due to its potential for harm.
Janyce Boynton, a former facilitator who once believed in the method, has since become a vocal critic. Boynton’s epiphany came after facilitating communication for a 16-year-old autistic girl who accused her father and brother of sexual abuse. When Prof. Shane conducted a double-blind test, it became clear that Boynton was, in fact, the one typing the messages. “I was the author of all the answers,” Boynton recalls. “It was irrefutable. You just didn’t realize it.” The revelation left her feeling devastated, but it also fueled her commitment to educating others about the dangers of facilitated communication.
At the heart of the facilitated communication debate is a critical question about power and autonomy: Who controls the narrative of non-verbal individuals? For many advocates, the method represents a way to give people like Tim Chan and Marlena Katene a voice. However, critics warn that it does the opposite, turning the non-verbal person into a passive vessel for the facilitator’s thoughts, beliefs, or even unconscious biases.
Dr. Adrienne Perry, a clinical psychologist, has warned that facilitated communication can allow the facilitator’s emotions and hostilities to be projected onto the communicator, raising serious ethical concerns.
Tim Chan acknowledges the criticisms but remains defiant. “We start doubting our ability to be a person in our own right,” he says, with the help of his mother’s facilitation. He has never participated in a double-blind test and argues that such testing would induce extreme anxiety in people with non-verbal autism, further skewing results.
The debate over facilitated communication is far from settled. While it continues to offer hope for individuals and families who feel silenced by disability, the scientific community and legal systems have largely turned their backs on the method, deeming it unreliable and dangerous. For people like Tim Chan, it remains a vital tool for self-expression. For others, it is a reminder of the blurred lines between advocacy and pseudoscience.
As the international conversation continues, facilitated communication stands at a crossroads. It is both a lifeline and a lightning rod, representing the complexities of care, autonomy, and the often unseen power dynamics between disabled individuals and their facilitators. In the end, the future of this controversial technique may depend on finding a balance between compassion and evidence-based practice, ensuring that the voices of non-verbal individuals are truly their own.
