I've always been a stubbornly independent person. When I came to UW, that started to become my detriment. I joined every club under the sun, with very little regard for my mental and physical health. Perhaps I thought I could do it on my own, that it would make me stronger. But I fell, and fell hard. Panic attacks became frequent visitors to my everyday routines. This picture is funny and cute but it does echo a darker reality for me; I needed help. So after falling a few too many times, I started to reach out for help, and learned perhaps the most important lesson of all. We are all interdependent beings. It is good, natural even, to reach out for help when we need it. Vulnerability is what makes us heal, and slowly but surely, I found it. Mental health disabilities are valid, real, and if you're going through that too... I see you. Shoutout to my therapists, ukulele, journals, mental health tracking apps, and friends. None of us are ever truly alone.
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The Deaf community is something that has always been a part of my life. I grew up with Deaf parents, and watched them experience ableism from the world. I watched my mom experience hiring discrimination, and I listened to the neighbors gossip about my dad as he used sign language in the front yard. But the label, CODA- Child of Deaf Adults- was something that didn't mean much to me until I came to college.
I attended a CODA retreat for the first time, and was surrounded by people just like me. They signed while they talked, and they laughed at Deaf jokes. They cried with me as I shared my memories of my parents, and they took me into their family. Now the identity carries a new meaning for me. Being a CODA means I sit on the fence between the Deaf world and the Hearing one. It means I carry a passion and responsibility to educate my hearing peers about Deaf culture and identity, and to improve the accessibility of the world for people just like my parents. It means I carry the joy and privilege of knowing American Sign Language, and I hold Deaf culture deep in my heart. For a long time, I resented my parents for making me 'different'. I hated interpreting for them at my elementary school concerts, doctors appointments, and grocery stores. But now I understand that those experiences were a critical part of becoming who I am now. I carry a lens that very few others do. And I am blessed for it. |