An Open Letter, Sincerely a Girl With Hearing Loss

An Open Letter

This is not an easy story to share openly, especially with those I personally know who may be reading this.

Having grown up in the hearing world with hearing loved ones, and then later immersing myself in the Deaf community, it has provided a unique insight into life with hearing loss. Sometimes articulating things that bother me as I learned more about my deafness has proven to be difficult. The most uncomfortable part is feeling the need to explain myself, my accommodations, or why I’m diving into this new culture and language. These things were not natural or guaranteed for me, nor to thousands of individuals like myself. But after several years, I finally feel at peace with sharing more with family, friends, and the people I grew up with.

I wasn’t always welcomed by the hearing world, nor the Deaf community. I spent years in what I call the the in-between. It may sound a tad bit dramatic to hearing friends, but many Hard of Hearing individuals experience this feeling. The hearing world was not made for people like me. I was constantly left out of conversations or experiences in the hearing world. Movies are tiring to watch—with or without captions. School was an uphill battle of accommodation support, and no matter how hard I studied, I still fell behind and was labeled a “special child”. My church later accused me of secret sin cycles in my life, this was assumed because of my anxiety and panic attacks from listening fatigue and overstimulation from the inaccessible sanctuary.

When I found out that my hearing loss was the reason for these experiences, I desperately looked for answers. I quickly found the Deaf community, and I was excited to explore the beautiful world and language I had recently learned of. After years of generational oppression, abuse and discrimination—this community and culture had been deeply affected. It seemed standoffish based on my initial interactions, and had deep roots of Deaf elitism. This pushed me farther away from exploring my dDeaf identity, and I became frustrated. As someone who wasn’t born into a multigenerational, cultural Deaf family, I wasn’t considered “deaf enough” because of my poor signing abilities and upbringing.

It was an initial punch to the gut. I thought I’d finally found people like me, but they wanted nothing to do with me. My motives were questioned. My signing was harshly judged. It felt like I didn’t make the cut because of decisions made for me by my childhood doctors. My ENT and audiologists didn’t think medical deafness should have meaning past a diagnosis and a pair of hearing aids. I wasn’t “deaf enough” for them either, therefore I was still “fixable”. They denied me hearing aids in the hopes that several unnecessary, detrimental, and experimental eardrum reconstruction surgeries would reverse or preserve what was left of my crappy hearing. I was miserable. All I wanted is for someone to listen to me, understand my experiences, and accept me for what I was. I just wanted to explore who I was, and what my body was telling me felt right.

I left many doctors appointments in tears, and anger began to build inside of me. I decided I couldn’t trust my doctors, and I looked elsewhere for answers. I still went to signing socials, but frequently left from anxiety. I would need a break and find somewhere else on campus to unwind. I’d often bump into another Hard of Hearing girl, who like me, would get overwhelmed and leave. I opened up to her, and expressed my disappointment towards the community for not sticking up for me, and others like me. There were hearing students who were constantly gatekeeping, they had the advantage of having access to ASL in high school while we didn’t. It wasn’t fair. We were both fed up, and frankly, we had every right to.

But then I realized the girl I sat with in the hall that night was like me. Really like me. She had hearing loss but didn’t know how to safely explore her identity. Why couldn’t we make our own?

I was ready to see a change. I was determined to explore every part of the culture, community, and identity I was entitled to. Each person reckons with their own experiences differently, and should be allowed to identify the way that is most true to themselves. Me and my friend have very different identities, accommodations, opinions and experiences. But we were both deaf.

I had to learn a new level of strength in vulnerability. I traveled an hour to find an audiologist who listened to me. I got hearing aids at the age of 20, and I went back to signing socials to try even harder to connect with deaf kids like me. I learned the power of storytelling and it was time to openly, messily share mine. It was slow, but it was received. We saw a shift in our local community after that. Not much later, For The Deaf Girl was born. I had so much anxiety pre-launch, and expected an angry mob of commenters saying I wasn’t qualified. But instead we received hundreds of messages saying, “I needed to hear this decades ago. I feel like I’m stuck in the in-between. Because of your blog I feel seen”. Those messages in our inbox keep me going. That is why I continue to share my story, and cultivate a platform to share their stories.

The Deaf community has come a long way in the last five years. It has grown, opening its arms to those who need it most. I’m starting to see a generation that is looking for healing, and toward a future of advocacy through storytelling. This next generation is key to changing the narrative about deafness. I so deeply love the Deaf community, and ultimately found my place. I am accepted for who I am, and where I’m at on this journey. It genuinely brings me joy that my story has resonated with so many women, and that they are on a path to finding peace with their identity.