Insight: If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t wrap my deaf child up in cotton wool (BSL)

I didn’t realise I was doing it at the time. In my mind, I felt I was protecting them by always being involved. I was worried that the world would be cruel to them and I wanted to soften everything before it reached them! This meant I often didn’t tell them when people were ignorant or rude and I’d paint a happy picture of us all being accepting of other peoples differences.

The truth was I felt my child was at a disadvantage and that the world would always be against them. I feel terrible saying that but hindsight is a fine thing I suppose.

They were mainstreamed from the very start. I remember hovering at school gates, questioning them about friendships and being quite overbearing in general. I didn’t think they’d be able to cope without me there – just in case they missed something or needed something explaining.

And the worst thing was I didn’t let them enjoy teenage independence. I didn’t let them get the bus alone even though their friends had all done it. I worried that they always needed to have someone with them.

I’d never had a child before – this was my first, precious child, and on top of that, they were deaf! I felt like I had to take extra, special care of them. I thought that was love.

But last year, my not so little child graduated—and in doing so, quietly showed me just how much stronger they were than I ever gave them credit for.

From the moment they left home, something shifted. Not overnight, not dramatically—but steadily I saw them blossom. They learned how to advocate for themselves in ways I never allowed space for before. They navigated new environments, new people, new expectations. They made mistakes, solved problems, asked for adjustments, and—most surprisingly to me—thrived.

And I watched it all with a mix of pride and regret.

Looking back, I can see how my fear shaped our lives. I worried they’d be left out, misunderstood, or hurt. So I stepped in. Too often. I filled silences. I answered questions directed at them. I encouraged “safe” choices over brave ones. I thought I was shielding them from struggle, when really, I was shielding myself from my own anxiety.

What I didn’t understand then was that confidence doesn’t grow in perfectly controlled environments. It grows when someone realises, “I can handle this.” And by cushioning every fall, I robbed my child of chances to discover their own resilience sooner.

University changed everything. Away from home, they had to explain their deafness on their own terms. They decided when to wear their technology, when to ask for repeats, when to push back, and when to laugh things off. They built friendships without me worrying in the background. They found their voice—not despite being deaf, but alongside it.

When they walked across that graduation stage last year, confident and self-assured, I realised something uncomfortable: they hadn’t suddenly become capable. They always were.

I just hadn’t stepped far enough back to see it.

This isn’t a blog about guilt—though there is some of that. It’s about honesty. About recognising how easy it is, as a hearing parent, to underestimate a deaf child’s strength because the world tells us they are “vulnerable.” Of course they face barriers. Of course they need support. But support should be a bridge, not a cage.

If I could speak to my younger self, I’d say this: let them struggle a little. Let them answer for themselves. Let them fail safely. Let them be uncomfortable. Let them surprise you.

Because they will.

My child didn’t need cotton wool—they needed trust. And if you’re a parent like I was—hovering, worrying, loving fiercely—know this: your child is likely braver than you think. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is loosen our grip and let them show us who they already are.

This blog has been written anonymously as part of the Insight series – created by Assistant editor Rebecca A Withey.

If you have a story, experience or viewpoint you would like to anonymously share please email Rebecca on  rebecca@rawithey.com

Image courtesy of Pexels