From Hearing To Deaf: A Journey Of Identity And Access
There was a time when I could hear—and then there wasn’t.
Not slowly. Not gently.
It happened in a way that left no room for preparation.
Becoming Deaf as an adult is often misunderstood. Many people imagine it as a gradual fading of sound, something you quietly adapt to over time. My experience was different. My hearing changed abruptly, and with it, my sense of self, safety, and belonging in the world.
For years, I had dealt with ongoing ear infections through my military service and worsened after I left the service. I trusted the system to guide me toward answers and care. Instead, what followed was delay after delay—until the condition became severe.
When surgery finally happened, it was already far past when it should have. The disease had progressed. Structures that support hearing were damaged. I went into surgery with hearing and woke up without it.
That moment is hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.
I didn’t just lose sound.
I lost orientation.
I lost family and friends.
I lost ease.
I lost the invisible access I had always relied on.
At first, I did what many people do when disability enters their life: I tried to hide it, ignore it and even fix it.
I tried hearing aids. I tried devices. I tried technology that promised to bridge the gap. But instead of connection, I found exhaustion. Instead of clarity, I found strain. The effort it took to exist in hearing spaces grew heavier and heavier, until it was no longer sustainable.
What no one tells you is that loss of access compounds isolation.
At the time, I was deeply invested in education and leadership. I had worked hard, built a career, and was pursuing advanced degrees. From the outside, everything looked successful. Inside, I was struggling in ways I didn’t yet have language for.
Meetings were inaccessible. Conversations moved too fast. Information came and went without landing. I was surrounded by people, yet increasingly alone.
The isolation didn’t come from being Deaf.
It came from being unsupported.
Eventually, I had to make a painful but necessary decision: I stepped away from a path that no longer fit the reality of my life. Not because I wasn’t capable—but because I deserved access.
Learning American Sign Language wasn’t just about communication. It was about identity. It was about reclaiming connection. It was about finding a way to exist in the world without constantly apologizing for how I function.
ASL gave me community.
It gave me language that didn’t require me to strain.
It gave me back myself.
Becoming Deaf wasn’t a choice.
But embracing Deaf identity was.
And that choice changed everything.
Today, I experience the world visually. I listen with my eyes. I notice subtle shifts—body language, breath, tension, hesitation—that are often overlooked. I understand what it feels like to be spoken around instead of spoken to. To be present, but not included. This is still part of my life today.
My everyday life is like watching a silent movie without captions.
Consistently reading the room, the faces, shifts, vibes and feelings to know if I am safe.
That awareness doesn’t leave you.
It follows you into every space where vulnerability exists—including birth.
This journey from hearing, to hard of hearing, to Deaf reshaped my understanding of access. It taught me that access is not a convenience or a courtesy. It is foundational to dignity, autonomy, and safety.
It is why I do the work I do today.
