When You’re Never “Enough”: A Neurodivergent Journey Through Deaf Purity Politics

TL;DR: After decades of being told I wasn’t “d/Deaf enough” for ASL, I’ve stopped asking for permission to use what works for my brain as an autistic person with significant auditory processing issues.

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Finding My Language

I discovered ASL when I was seven, at a school where about 10 percent of the students were Deaf or hard of hearing. There were interpreters in every class and vibrating floors in the music rooms so Deaf kids could feel the rhythm. ASL became my hyperfixation. I memorized The Joy of Signing and fingerspelled everything before I could fluently read.

What I didn’t know then was that I was autistic. I’d been diagnosed with ADHD and giftedness, but no one recognized how much I struggled with speech in noise, fast talkers, or following conversations in groups. ASL gave me clarity, structure, and tactile memory in a way spoken language never could. When overwhelmed, I would fingerspell or sign to myself just to hold onto the words.

I wasn’t bullied. I was invisible. I dominated conversations because I couldn’t follow them easily, and I didn’t understand the rhythm of back-and-forth. I gravitated toward other kids who didn’t fit in either. I stared at the interpreters every day, jealous of the Deaf kids who got to learn through the visual language I needed but didn’t know I was allowed to ask for.

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Trying to Belong

By high school, I was fluent. I spent all my time in the ASL hallway, took advanced classes at Gallaudet, and studied at the Bicultural Center. But even among Deaf peers, I was only half-accepted. Kind, eager, maybe even skilled, but not one of them.

The Deaf world made more sense to me than anything else. The social rules were clearer, the rhythm less chaotic, and the interactions more direct. These communities felt safer than the mainstream hearing world, where the social rules often felt confusing and performative.

But I was always told I wasn’t “Deaf enough.” I couldn’t function in noisy bars. I struggled in classrooms without interpreters. I had significant auditory processing difficulties, but my audiograms looked normal. Because I could hear pure tones, I wasn’t allowed to qualify for support.

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The Endless Middle Ground

I tried to prove myself. I completed interpreter training at American River College and Cal State Northridge. But I couldn’t ethically work as an interpreter. I missed too much when teachers walked past HVAC units or turned away. I wasn’t hearing enough to interpret, but I wasn’t Deaf enough to request interpreters either.

I went to graduate school at Gallaudet. My research interests didn’t fit neatly into any department. Too Deaf-focused for communication sciences, too mainstream for Deaf Studies. When my advisor threatened to strike me over a research disagreement and then died shortly after, the department fell apart. I left to raise my son, who turned out to be a gestalt language processor with autism and ADHD, much like me.

That’s also when I was finally diagnosed as autistic. I sought out answers for why listening had always been so difficult. I found free online auditory processing screeners and was later evaluated through clinicians who were practicing their APD testing skills. Sometimes I passed, sometimes I didn’t. Fatigue made a huge difference. The results were inconsistent, but they confirmed what I already knew. My brain processed sound differently.

I tried low-gain hearing aids for a few months. They filtered noise helpfully, but the tactile discomfort around my ears made them difficult to wear. In the end, I realized I didn’t just need amplification. I needed cognitive support, tools for memory, split attention, and sensory regulation. Nothing helped completely, but learning to support my hearing instead of forcing it made all the difference.

Over time, I realized that many of my auditory processing challenges were actually rooted in broader sensory processing issues. By supporting my tactile system especially, along with vestibular and proprioceptive input, and by working on executive functioning and cognitive organization, I was able to manage sound more effectively. But even with those supports, ASL remains my language of choice when I am overwhelmed or under stress. It grounds me in a way spoken language never could. It’s partly because of the tactile nature of it, the feel of movement and rhythm, and the proprioceptive awareness of my hands and arms in space. I could never dance with my whole body. In sign, I finally could. This was the only way I’ve ever been able to dance.

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Breaking Point

I kept going to Deaf events. Kept signing. Kept trying to belong. But even the things I loved, like signing to music, were called “inappropriate.” My grammar wasn’t perfect, so I was told I shouldn’t be signing publicly at all. I was told I couldn’t request interpreters. That no one really liked me. That ASL shouldn’t be the language of my heart.

More recently, I helped fund a Deaf-led organization and was invited to join. But when I made a memory-related mistake, likely tied to ADHD, I was publicly shamed. The same people I had trusted and supported turned on me.

And something inside me finally broke.

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Letting Go of Permission

I stopped trying to prove I was “enough.”

I love ASL. I need it. My auditory processing issues, caused by autism, ADHD, and APD, are real. I’ve spent a lifetime adapting in a world built for fast-spoken auditory learners. ASL supports me. I no longer need anyone’s permission to use the language that works for my brain.

I understand why gatekeeping exists. Marginalized communities build walls to protect themselves. But that doesn’t justify excluding others with similar needs. Exclusion isn’t protection. It’s harm.

And I’m not alone. Hard of hearing people are told they aren’t Deaf enough. Children of hearing parents are told their ASL isn’t native enough. Late-deafened adults are ignored. Even Deaf kids raised with Signed English or Cued Speech get pushed aside. Purity politics create arbitrary standards of belonging, and they harm the very people who need community the most.

Some people go so far as to fake hearing loss just to be accepted. I never did. But I once dreamed of children being given pills to take away their hearing so they could finally belong. I woke up crying, because in the dream, I finally fit in.

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The Absurdity of Audiogram-Based Gatekeeping

We’ve let audiograms decide who gets to claim Deafness. But hearing beeps in a sound booth says nothing about someone’s ability to follow a conversation in a restaurant, remember instructions in a lecture, or process verbal language during group discussions.

Children sit in classrooms with 25 other kids, fluorescent lights, hallway noise, pencil tapping, and HVAC systems. They might hear pure tones in a quiet booth, but that doesn’t mean they can actually learn through speech alone.

Yet these kids are labeled as inattentive or oppositional instead of being recognized as having access needs. They’re denied interpreters, written supports, and ASL, just like I was.

The real question should be: “What do you need to communicate effectively?” Not “Can you hear this beep in this artificial environment?”

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What I Actually Need

I don’t need to prove I’m disabled by someone else’s standards. I need visual language that works with my brain. I need tools that support memory and focus. I need accommodations that help me communicate and stay regulated. I need community that doesn’t demand I perform struggle in order to be included.

I use ASL the way others might use an AAC device. It helps me when I’m overwhelmed, when I lose words, when I can’t speak. But it only works when others know it too.

That’s the deepest loss. I don’t even have a signing community anymore. The very language that could connect me to others has become a source of isolation because of gatekeeping.

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To Everyone Who’s Been Pushed Out

If you’ve been told you’re not “Deaf enough,” not “fluent enough,” not “authentic enough,” I want you to know you’re not alone.

So many of us are denied the tools, the languages, and the belonging that could change everything because of purity politics that exclude far more people than they protect.

Maybe it’s time to stop asking for permission.

Use what works. Build your own supports. Speak your own truth.

ASL is my language. I don’t need to justify that to anyone.

I am enough. And so are you.

Exactly as we are.