Living in the Grey

I live and work in the grey. 

Not fully hearing. Not fully Deaf. Not neatly defined by the boxes we tend to know and rely on. 

I have a moderate to severe hearing loss in both ears and wear hearing aids. Some days, I function well. Other days - when I’m tired, overwhelmed, or even just have a cold (as I do this week - bleurgh) my access to sound drops significantly. Conversations blur. I rely more heavily on lipreading, context, visual cues, and when all else fails - tuning out and phaffing about. 

It shifts and I shift. 

And that’s the part we don’t talk about enough. 

In the world I work in, “Deaf” is often clear. It’s a cultural identity. A language. A community. It’s visible, respected, and increasingly understood. 

“Hearing” is also clear. 

But the grey space in between? That space can feel invisible. 

And yet, it’s full of people. 

People like me who move between worlds. Who sometimes access spoken language and sometimes don’t. Who are learning visual language, but may not yet be fluent enough to follow fast, natural conversation. Who can feel both included and excluded in the same space, sometimes within the same moment. 

Living in the grey can be confusing. It can be lonely. At times, it can be embarrassing. 

But it is also something else. 

It is a strength. 

In my work with children, families, and the wider community, my “grey” is my superpower.

Looks just like me.

It allows me to model what communication really looks like when it’s done well - responsive, intentional, and inclusive. 

Because here’s what I know: 

The strategies often associated with Deaf communication -

~ eye contact, 
~ facing the speaker, 
~ clear visual access, 
~ thoughtful use of light and environment,
these are not niche strategies. 

They are high-quality communication strategies. 

They support the greys. 

They support neurodivergent learners. 

They support children developing language. 

They support anyone who is tired, overwhelmed, or processing a lot. 

They support everyone. 

Imagine a world where we all communicated as if access mattered all the time - not just when a specific need is visible. What would change? 

I think a lot would. 

Because inclusion isn’t just about choosing one group and adapting for them. 

It’s about recognising the full spectrum of human experience - and designing spaces that respond to that spectrum. 

I deeply respect the intention behind creating Deaf-friendly spaces, including those where visual language is prioritised. These spaces matter. They recognise language, culture, and a history of exclusion that should never be ignored. And at the same time, my experience in the grey has taught me that access doesn’t always sit neatly within one approach. 

There are moments where I am not able to fully access spoken communication. There are also moments where I am not yet able to fully access fast, fluent visual language. 

In those moments, what helps most isn’t a fixed rule. 

It’s responsiveness. It’s people noticing. Adjusting. And checking in. 

Because inclusion, at its best, isn’t static. 

It moves with the people in the room. 

There’s also something else I’ve noticed about living in the grey. 

 

Humour.

Humour can feel very different depending on how it’s shared. 

With people I trust, I love a good tease. “Turn up your hearing aids!” said to my face, with eye contact and a smile - I’ll laugh every time and most likely reply with an expletive-laden roasting of said friend. Because I’m included in the moment. I can respond. I’m part of the connection. 

But the undirected comments are different. The ones said slightly to the side. The ones not meant for me to hear. Or perhaps assumed I won’t hear? 

Those moments land quietly - but heavily. 

And not because they are always intended to hurt, but because they create distance and make assumptions. It can hit with a subtle kind of shame. And the truth is, there are probably many moments I’ve missed entirely. That’s the part of the grey we don’t always see. 

My experience of communication also isn’t shaped by hearing alone. I’m also neurodivergent. Attention, processing speed, cognitive load, and fatigue all play a role in how I listen, understand, and respond. 

On some days, even when sound is technically accessible, it doesn’t mean it is easily processed. And I know I’m not alone in that. 

Many children - whether they have hearing loss or not - experience communication in ways that don’t fit neatly into expectations. 

They may hear the words, but miss the meaning. 

They may need more time, more visual support, or fewer competing demands. 

They may appear disengaged, when in reality they are overloaded. 

This is where the idea of “the grey” expands, because it’s not just about hearing. It’s about access. And when we get communication right - when we use visual supports, reduce background noise, face each other, and allow processing time - we’re not just supporting one group. We’re creating environments where many more people can succeed, including the children we work with every day. 

As I reflect on these experiences, I know I need to step up my game and play my own role in them. 

There are moments where I could advocate more clearly for what I need. 

In a recent meeting, I was asked to take minutes on a day when my access to communication was significantly reduced. I didn’t speak up. I didn’t say, “I’m not at my best for this today,” or ask for supports like captions, a microphone, or shared note-taking. That’s something I’m still learning. Self-advocacy matters - not as an excuse to step away from responsibility, but as a way to ensure we can contribute meaningfully and accurately. At the same time, inclusion can’t rest solely on the individual to speak up every time. It has to be shared. 

So perhaps the question isn’t, “Which communication method should dominate?” 

 

Perhaps the question is, “How do we build environments that are responsive, flexible, and grounded in mutual respect?” 

Where people can say, “This is what helps me access right now.” 

And where that is met with, “Okay - let’s work with that.” 

Living in the grey has taught me that identity isn’t always something fixed. 

 

Who knew there were so many beautiful shades of grey!
(https://www.color-meanings.com/shades-of-gray-color-names-html-hex-rgb-codes/)

It shifts with environment. 

With health. 

With energy. 

With access. 

And that’s all okay. 

 

There is beauty in the grey. 

There is strength in it. 

Flexibility. 

Empathy. 

Connection. 

And perhaps most importantly - possibility. 

 

Because when children, families, and communities see the grey in action, they see that there isn’t just one way to communicate, one way to belong, or one way to succeed. 

They see that the spectrum is wide, and that there is space for them within it. 

Maybe true inclusion isn’t about choosing one way of communicating, but about staying open to changing it.