Charlene Bakerwood: I’m Deaf, I didn’t hear you – a letter to myself (BSL)

This feels personal to me, but I hope it is relatable to you.

I was born profoundly Deaf in both ears. My father was Deaf, and so was my grandmother, so Deafness has always been part of my family. Three generations, three different experiences of navigating a world that is largely built around hearing people.

I wear hearing aids and grew up in a hearing world. I went to a mainstream village school where I was the only Deaf child.

I was taught through oralism. Every week, a speech therapist would work with me at school, teaching me how to speak and pronounce words. I hated it, I hated the attention of being removed from the classroom to disappear with a mysterious lady whilst my classmates looked on.

In those lessons,I learned to lip-read, listen through my hearing aids and work out sound patterns, it’s incredibly hard to communicate in a hearing world as a Deaf person and even more so as a child.

And I became very good at appearing as though I was coping.

But people don’t always see the effort behind that.

They don’t see the concentration it takes to follow a conversation, or the embarrassment when I misunderstand something. They don’t see me watching someone’s face, trying to piece together words, or looking around the room when everyone laughs because I didn’t hear the joke.

Being the only Deaf child at school meant I often felt like the difference. And when you’re a child, being different can feel like something you need to hide.

So I learned to smile when I hadn’t understood. I learned to nod when I wasn’t sure. I learned to laugh along. And I learned that sometimes it was easier to pretend than to ask someone to repeat themselves again.

Even now, at 37, I sometimes find myself doing exactly the same thing.

When I don’t understand someone and say, “Sorry, I’m Deaf, can you say that again?”

And they respond:

“WHATTT?”

That exaggerated “WHATTT?” that hearing people sometimes do because they think it’s funny.

I think of all the times I’ve genuinely believed somebody had misheard and I’ve started to repeat myself before they would begin to laugh….

and I’ll awkwardly smile. Maybe even fake a laugh.

But inside, I feel rage.

Rage for the little girl who heard that “WHATTT?” a thousand times and felt embarrassed.

But now the rage has changed.

Sometimes I’m angry at the other person for being rude and unaware. Sometimes I’m angry at myself for not correcting them. For smiling. For laughing. For making myself uncomfortable so they can remain comfortable.

Sometimes I feel nothing but overwhelming frustration.

The kind that comes from concentrating so hard on someone’s face, trying to piece together every word, and still not understanding.

You ask them to repeat themselves.

Again.

And again.

Until eventually, you just stop asking.

You nod. You smile. You pretend you understood.

Not because you aren’t listening, but because you’re exhausted.

People often think being Deaf means silence.

But my world isn’t silent.

It’s full of facial expressions, sign language, lip-reading, vibrations, context and constant observation.

A room full of laughter can sometimes be one of the loneliest places for me.

Everyone laughs, and I don’t know why.

Someone speaks while looking away. Someone talks from another room. Someone covers their mouth. Someone starts talking when I wasn’t expecting it.

And suddenly, I’m behind again.

It’s not that I don’t want to join in.

I just need access to the conversation.

And there is a huge difference.

Sometimes people assume that because I can speak, I can hear. Because I can lip-read, I must understand everything. Because I wear hearing aids, I must hear perfectly.

My hearing aids help me, but they don’t make me hearing and lip-reading isn’t a superpower. It’s exhausting. It’s guessing, filling in gaps and using context while trying to keep up with a conversation everyone else seems to be having effortlessly.

Being Deaf isn’t something I can switch off.

Every conversation can come with a little calculation:

Can I see their face?

Is the lighting good?

Is there background noise?

Will I understand them?

Will I have to explain that I’m Deaf?

Will they be patient?

Will they make a joke?

It can be mentally exhausting.

But being Deaf has also taught me resilience, patience and the importance of inclusion.

And as I’ve grown older, I’ve started to see my Deafness differently.

For so long, I saw it through the eyes of the hearing world — something that needed to be managed, explained or overcome.

But my Deafness is also my family.

My grandmother.

My father.

Me.

It’s part of my childhood, my experiences and my identity.

Maybe some of the strength I have comes from the generations before me who navigated this world in their own way.

So, what does it mean to be Deaf?

For me, it means frustration, loneliness, laughter, family, community and resilience.

It means sometimes feeling incredibly vulnerable, and sometimes incredibly proud.

It means carrying the little girl who once felt embarrassed by being Deaf and reminding her that there was never anything wrong with her.

She didn’t need to hear differently.

She didn’t need to try harder.

She didn’t need to apologise for asking someone to repeat themselves.

And neither do I.

Maybe being Deaf isn’t about what I can’t hear.

Maybe it’s about everything I’ve learned to see, feel, understand and experience in a completely different way.

And maybe, at 37, I’m finally learning that I don’t have to make myself uncomfortable just to make other people comfortable.

I can simply say:

“I’m Deaf. I didn’t hear you. Please say it again.”

And I don’t have to apologise for that.

Not anymore.

Charlene says: “I grew up in Berkshire but now live in Suffolk with my partner and our seven-year-old daughter. I work in a secondary school, and as a family, we love keeping active, from our weekly Parkruns to exploring the mountains and taking on new climbing adventures across the UK.”