No One I Went to School with Knew I was Deaf

No one I went to school with knew I was deaf.

Not a single person.

Why?

Because I went out of my way to make sure they didn’t.

I laughed at jokes I didn’t hear, nodded along like I understood, and worked twice as hard just to keep up. I wasn’t protecting myself from bullies—I was protecting myself from being seen.

I remember one time in school, a classmate’s watch got stolen. Our teacher made us swap bags to search them. 

My classmate opened mine, found my empty hearing aid box, and said, 'I bet you hid the watch in here.'

I was terrified.

Not because they thought I was a thief. 

But because they’d find out I was deaf.

How could I explain what the box was without revealing my secret?

I spent so much of my childhood hiding who I was.

Growing up, the only stories I saw about disability were tragic. On TV, in real life—disabled people were painted as something to pity, fear, or avoid. In school, kids who were 'different' were shunned, whispered about, or outright ignored.

So when I found out I was losing my hearing, 'deaf' and 'disability' felt like dangerous words. Words that could isolate me, make me invisible, or worse.

My family and even doctors told me not to tell anyone. They thought they were protecting me. Maybe they were. But what they didn’t see was how much I had to erase myself to survive.

Looking back now, I ache for that younger version of me. For all the times I stayed quiet, all the moments I didn’t let myself be seen.

It’s taken me years to unlearn that silence, to stop being afraid, and to embrace who I am. I no longer hide my hearing aids. I no longer pretend to be someone I’m not.

This Disability Day, I hope we’re building a world where no child feels like I did. A world where disability isn’t a secret or a shame. A world where every voice is valued—whether it’s spoken, signed, or anything in between.