Inclusion Is Not a Threat: Why We Need to Make Room at the Table
Lately, I’ve been told—sometimes directly, sometimes between the lines—that talking about Auditory Processing Disorder (APD), milder forms of Auditory Neuropathy Spectrum Disorder (ANSD), and sensory overload issues such as autism and sensory processing disorders, in spaces dedicated to traditional Deaf education, blindness, or disability rights is “irritating.” That we are pushing too hard. That we are asking for too much. But what we’re asking for is a place at the table—a table that should have always had room.
This group of children and adults has the right to be included, not because they’re convenient to serve, but because they exist. Because they’re struggling. Because they’re being left behind in silence. And the truth is, when we expand the table instead of guarding it, everyone gets stronger. Inclusion doesn’t dilute identity—it amplifies justice.
The Deaf community has a long, rich history—a legacy of language, culture, resilience, and hard-won advocacy. It has fought for access in a world that often insists on spoken language and denies the richness of visual communication. That legacy deserves deep respect. It also deserves protection—but not protection in the form of walls. It deserves protection in the form of expansion. Bridges. Bigger tables.
At the same time, we also need to acknowledge that the Deaf community—like any community—has its own history of exclusion. There have been times when access and identity were limited only to those born to Deaf parents, or to those who learned ASL from birth. For many years, even within the community, people asked, “Who is Deaf enough?” Every culture has the right to define itself, to build identity, and to protect what’s sacred. But this particular conversation isn’t about hierarchy—it’s about freedom of access. About giving people the tools to connect, communicate, and belong, regardless of where their hearing loss originates or how their identity is shaped.
I cannot and will not speak for the Deaf community itself. But I will speak as someone who has been positively shaped by access to it—as someone who is autistic, with auditory processing differences and sensory sensitivities. I understand the disorientation of being in a space where you can “hear” sound but not make sense of it. I understand the difference between having access to sound and having access to language. And I understand what it means to find clarity and connection through visual language when sound fails.
That’s why it troubles me when conversations about auditory processing disorder (APD), mild auditory neuropathy spectrum disorder (ANSD), or autism/SPD related hearing issues are met with suspicion or even hostility in some educational and advocacy circles. Children with these difficulties are not trying to “claim Deaf space.” They’re not trying to erase culture or appropriate identity. They’re trying to access language. And they’re often trying to do so with fewer resources, fewer allies, and less recognition than nearly anyone else at the table.
Some such families of children with APD, ANSD, autism/SPD are never even told that visual language could be a viable option. Not because it wouldn’t help—but because their child “hears.” Because the audiogram looks fine. Because the problem is in the brain, not the ear. And without a clear path to the Deaf community—without models, mentors, or systems pointing them toward visual access—those children are often left without language. Or at best, with delayed, fragmented, or exhausting access to it.
Children with APD, ANSD, or autism/SPD often need specialized instruction. Spoken language may be unreliable, inconsistent, or simply too overwhelming to decode in real time. For many, ASL isn’t a fallback—it’s a lifeline. It’s the clearest, most predictable route to full language access. And when families are welcomed into that path—when they’re shown what visual language can offer—not only do children thrive, but entire communities grow stronger.
Adults with the non-traditional hearing issues face similar challenges. Many live in the gray space between hearing and Deaf communities. They may not sign, but they can’t follow conversations in noise. They may pass a hearing test, but they fail to access spoken information in daily life. And too often, they are left out of both worlds—excluded from hearing spaces due to sensory limitations and excluded from Deaf spaces due to cultural or linguistic gatekeeping. This isolation is real. And it’s not a hearing problem—it’s an access problem.
Even those with traditional peripheral hearing loss are not immune to central auditory processing challenges. Deafness is not just in the ears—it’s in the brain, too. Auditory deprivation—especially when prolonged—can lead to differences in how the brain organizes and interprets sound. That’s why two people with the same audiogram may have very different functional outcomes. One may navigate noisy environments with ease. Another may struggle with phone calls, classroom discourse, or group conversations. The difference is not always audiological—it’s neurological.
This is also why it’s dangerous to draw a hard line between “central” and “peripheral” hearing differences, as if one is valid and the others are not. That line is artificial. It’s a product of discriminitory insurance coding, of unrealistic IEP labeling, not lived experience. And when we use it to gatekeep access to visual language, accommodations, or community, we risk doing exactly what we’ve spent decades fighting against: denying people the tools they need to thrive.
There are children right now—children who cannot understand speech clearly, who may be misdiagnosed as simply having a disorder such as ADHD (yet, they may actually be experiencing non-traditional hearing issues like APD or ANSD instead of, or in addition to, attention deficits). They may be told their speech and language or behavioral difficulties are simply because they’re not adequately trying—despite the fact that they are actually being forced to rely on their least effective sense for communication and learning, simply because they didn’t fail a hearing test comprised of pure tones and single words presented in quiet.
Consider that responses to auditory testing may fluctuate considerably from day to day. Before deciding someone is “within normal limits,” perhaps we, as professionals, we as advocates, should understand that; Perhaps in one test, their eardrums moved appropriately. Perhaps, that particular day their cochlea showed hair cell movement (OAE), or acoustic reflex testing demonstrated that their brain protected them from loud sounds. Perhaps even an auditory brainstem response showed that sound in the ears could travel to the brainstem. Despite all of this supposedly infallible “objective” evaluation, not one of these tests is capable of clearly demonstrating that a child or adult can hear and understand sounds presented in a real-to-life complex listening environment.
So, based on an inadequate hearing screening, they “pass.” Then, they are not given access to interpreters. They are not allowed to sign in class. And they are not told that visual language could help.
Seriously? How is that equity? How is that a least restrictive environment? Seems to me that this is pure discrimination rooted in misidentification and misunderstanding.
I understand that my stepping into these spaces may be seen by some as rude. But it isn’t rudeness. It’s advocacy. I am a member of the community I represent. I am autistic. I continually experience symptoms of auditory processing disorder and sensory overload. And I work every day with children and adults who have been marginalized and denied access because their needs do not fit into neat categories. My intention is not to take space. It is to promote the self-advocacy, independence, and strength of the individuals I represent.
I know what I’m asking breaks barriers. I know it pushes against institutional norms. But what would be rude—what would be truly unjust—is to continue allowing this population to be underserved. To let them fall behind. To deny them the ability to express their own voices. These individuals need the same tools the Deaf community has fought for. They need language access. They need accommodations. And they have every right to ask for them. Because in the end, this isn’t about whether the hearing loss is in the ear or in the brain. If sound doesn’t come through, it doesn’t matter where the breakdown is. If it can’t be processed, it can’t be understood.
This issue isn’t limited to the Deaf community. I’ve seen similar dynamics play out in blind and low-vision education. I once proposed that orientation and mobility specialists (O&M) could support children with auditory spatial processing difficulties—those who get disoriented in sound-heavy environments. Some educators were enthusiastic. Others pushed back, citing limited staff and concern that their core population would lose access. I get it—budgets are tight. Staff are overwhelmed. But hoarding services won’t solve scarcity. Building better systems will.
Auditory processing is intersectional by nature. It touches reading, speech, executive function, sensory integration, emotional regulation, spatial orientation, and social connection. It shows up in classrooms, therapy rooms, workspaces, and family life. That’s why asking for a seat at the table feels disruptive to some—it cuts across fields. But this isn’t about claiming space that belongs to someone else. It’s about widening the circle so everyone has room.
This is not about taking chairs away. It’s about adding a leaf to the table.
When we recognize underserved populations, we grow the field. We bring in funding. We create new roles and training pipelines. We expand the reach of supports like ASL, captioning, sensory accommodations, and flexible learning strategies. That creates infrastructure for sliding-scale services, interdisciplinary teams, and pro bono work. Inclusion is not a drain—it’s a driver of sustainability.
And yes, I’m an audiologist. I work in this field. But let’s be honest: everyone at the table has an agenda. Interpreters are paid for their work. Teachers of the Deaf earn a living. ASL instructors charge for classes. Parents fight for services. Self-advocates build platforms. That’s not exploitation. That’s a functioning disability economy—as it should be. And expanding that economy to include people with APD, mild ANSD, or sensory-based communication barriers like autism or SPD doesn’t diminish anyone’s legitimacy. It affirms theirs.
APD belongs in the room. So does ANSD, fluctuating hearing loss, cortical hearing loss, even autism and SPD. So does traditional peripheral hearing loss. And so does anyone whose experience of sound, language, or connection looks different from the norm.
Disability justice doesn’t come from drawing smaller circles. It comes from making a bigger table—and pulling up another chair.
Visual Description:
A warm, hand-drawn cartoon-style illustration shows a family preparing to expand a wooden oval dining table. The scene conveys inclusion, care, and quiet cooperation. At the center, a man in a light blue shirt carefully places a matching wooden leaf into the middle of the table, filling the open space and symbolizing expansion.
To the left, a girl with straight dark brown hair and a red long-sleeve shirt sits patiently, watching the process. On the right side of the image, a woman with long auburn hair and a green sweater gently helps a smiling young boy—seated and wearing an orange shirt—position his chair closer to the table. A teenage girl with shoulder-length dark hair and a yellow shirt sits further back, smiling as she watches the scene unfold.
The room is softly lit, with a golden, beige background and no distracting elements. The oval table and warm earth tones give the illustration a calm, inviting atmosphere. The placement of the leaf in the center, along with the welcoming expressions and gestures, conveys the central metaphor: making space for others by expanding the table, both literally and figuratively.
