When I lost my hearing, I realized something important—if I was ever going to build a future worth living, I needed an education. Learning to sign while speaking at the same time was the moment my world opened up. Suddenly, communication wasn’t a wall anymore—it became a bridge. That’s the beauty of encouraging deaf children to use every tool available: sign language, speech, gestures, technology—whatever it takes to connect with others.
After college, I stood at a crossroads. Should I teach? Should I act? Should I model? Should I do public relations for the deaf community? The truth is, I didn’t want to limit myself to one dream. And today, I am doing all that I dreamed of—and even more.
People often ask: “What does it feel like to live your whole life in silence, and then suddenly have your hearing restored?” My answer is this: deafness is not a tragedy to be fixed. What is tragic is when society refuses to see us, to represent us, or to hear us—ironically, when they are the ones who can.
Television and film rarely portray deaf people accurately. Too often, we appear only in a “special episode” about medical procedures or cochlear implants, rather than being woven into the story as real, complex human beings. Writers often fail to immerse themselves in deaf culture or truly listen to the lived experiences of deaf actors. And that hurts. Because the deaf community deserves to be seen—not as a storyline, but as people.
I have friends in the community who are actors and performers, and nothing frustrates them more than seeing hearing people cast to play deaf roles. Deafness is not something you can simply “pretend.” You can’t project yourself into it, not even for a moment. To be deaf is to live in a culture, a rhythm, and a way of experiencing the world that cannot be imagined—it must be lived.
Over time, I’ve realized that many people simply don’t know what deaf culture is. That is why I’ve chosen to use my platform to reframe the world’s understanding of it. I take joy in surprising people—photographers, directors, casting agents—when they discover that my deafness is not a limitation but a strength. I can read body language better than most. I can connect without words. And I can bring visions to life because I understand more than what is spoken.
I’ve always aspired to be the kind of role model who builds a bridge between the deaf and the hearing worlds. I am ready—100 percent ready—to be a spokesperson for my community. My dream is to host a talk show, to create films that include deaf characters not as “special cases” but as ordinary people, to see Broadway embrace us on stage. Because we belong everywhere stories are told.
In the deaf community, there are different philosophies: some believe only in signing, others only in speaking, some prefer cued speech, some embrace cochlear implants, and others reject them. My view? Communication is not about one right path—it’s about connection. And connection looks different for everyone.
I am the only deaf person in my family, and yes, there are moments when conversations swirl around me and I’m left out. I’ve learned to ask questions, to demand inclusion, but I don’t let it make me sad. This is not isolation—it’s simply my reality. And I choose to live it with joy, not despair.
When it comes to love and marriage, many deaf people feel strongly that they must marry someone who shares their language. I believe differently. To me, it doesn’t matter if my partner is hearing or deaf. What matters is the willingness to communicate. Without communication, love struggles. But with it, love thrives.
Growing up, I was called “deaf and dumb” or “deaf and mute.” These words cut deeply. They are degrading, demeaning, and wrong. We are not dumb. We are not mute. We are people—with voices, with dreams, with stories that deserve to be heard.
And yet, most of the time when I audition, I am given roles where deaf characters are written unrealistically—reading lips across the room, somehow understanding people whose backs are turned, or having others constantly repeat their words. This is not our truth. And the availability of roles for deaf actors has always been painfully limited.
But there is hope. When Switched at Birth cast deaf actors, it created a ripple effect across the industry. Suddenly, we began to see more inclusion, more authentic representation. That show made an impact—and I believe we can keep building on it.
For me, faith and righteousness are also part of this journey. I believe healing is always possible—sometimes physical, sometimes spiritual, sometimes through the power of storytelling itself. But not every mountain will move, not every deaf ear will hear. And that’s okay. Because purpose is greater than perfection.
I stand here not as someone broken, but as someone whole. Deafness has never made me less—it has made me more. More resilient. More creative. More determined to turn silence into strength.
I want the world to know this: being deaf does not mean living in darkness. It means living in a different kind of light. And that light is just as powerful, just as beautiful, and just as worthy of being seen.
And so, I will keep speaking—through my hands, through my voice, through my art, through my faith—until the world listens.
Because silence can be powerful. But when silence tells its story, the whole world will hear.
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