A reflection on the deepest human need — to be understood.
I have spent my life in the Deaf community — living, working, and loving within it. I’ve seen the pain that silence leaves behind, the kind that has nothing to do with sound and everything to do with separation. Over and over, I’ve watched families who love each other deeply struggle in the absence of shared communication. Love was never the problem. Access was.
For over thirty years I’ve seen Deaf individuals ache for the family who never learned their language. I’ve seen hearing parents weep years later, realizing they missed the chance to truly know their child.
This isn’t just someone else’s story. It’s mine, too.
I am a Coda — a Child of Deaf Adults — and I know this sorrow intimately. I grew up watching my parents navigate a world that often refused to listen in the language they used — the language that provided them access to everything: connection, belonging, communication, and dignity. And now, as the wife of a Deaf man, I’ve seen how this same story continues, generation after generation.
When we look through the lens of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, the impact of that silence becomes painfully clear. What many think of as a “communication choice” reaches into the very core of what it means to be human.
1. Physiological Needs: The Right to Exist and Be Heard
At the most basic level of human need — survival — is the right to communicate. For a Deaf child, communication is life. It is how they understand safety, express pain, connect with others, and make sense of the world around them.
Language is not just a tool; it’s oxygen for the mind and heart. It’s how we tell others we are here. When a Deaf child is surrounded by people who cannot or will not communicate in a language they understand, the message they receive is devastatingly clear: your voice does not matter here.
When communication is withheld or delayed, a child’s world becomes confusing and unpredictable. They learn to survive without clarity, to adapt without understanding. They stop reaching out — not because they don’t need others, but because they’ve learned no one will understand them.
That isn’t silence. It’s abandonment disguised as choice.
The Devastation of Language Deprivation
Language deprivation is one of the most profound and preventable traumas a person can experience. It robs a child not only of words but of identity, belonging, and emotional safety. Without access to natural language during critical developmental years, the brain struggles to form the pathways that support self-regulation, empathy, and abstract thought.
This isn’t simply a delay in learning — it’s a delay in being.
For many Deaf individuals, language deprivation creates a lifelong ripple of loss: fractured family relationships, academic barriers, emotional dysregulation, and shame that runs so deep it becomes inherited. I’ve seen this devastation in therapy rooms and family sessions — the grief of realizing that what was missing wasn’t love, but access.
It’s a wound that begins with silence and ends with isolation. And it’s entirely preventable.
2. Safety Needs: Predictability and Trust
Safety is born from consistency — knowing that someone will be there when you reach out.
When a Deaf child cannot communicate with the people they depend on most, home becomes an uncertain place. Misunderstandings turn into discipline. Tears turn into frustration. A child learns to hide emotion because it takes too much effort to explain it.
That constant misattunement is trauma. The child’s nervous system learns that love is unpredictable, and that trust must be earned through compliance, not connection.
3. Love and Belonging: The Core of Connection
Love is supposed to be safe. It’s supposed to be shared in stories, laughter, and affection. But how can you belong in a family that cannot speak your language?
When families don’t learn sign language, Deaf children grow up on the outskirts of their own lives — present but excluded. They sit at dinner tables where conversation happens around them, not with them. They grow up feeling that love has a limit — that being understood was too much to ask.
And years later, I hear parents whisper through tears,
“I didn’t realize he had so much to say.”
I know that loss. I’ve lived with that longing. I fully believe that my grandparents loved my parents and did the best they could at the time. I also believe that most parents genuinely want what’s best for their children. But even with love and good intentions, this disconnection continues to happen today — and its impact is still felt deeply in the lives of Deaf individuals and their families.
Deaf people — even now — still carry the pain of not belonging. They still question whether they are lovable or worthy of being understood. The regret continues across generations, and the silence between love and access remains one of the deepest wounds I know.
4. Esteem Needs: Being Valued and Understood
When a person’s language and identity are not accepted, their sense of worth begins to fracture. Deaf children internalize the idea that their way of communicating — their way of being understood — is “less than.”
And worse — that they are less than. That they are unworthy of even the most basic connection and communication.
That kind of wound runs deep. It creates adults who question their value, who apologize for existing, who work endlessly to prove their worth. It’s not because they are broken — it’s because they were made to feel broken and invisible.
I see this every day in my counseling work. The struggle to believe I matter often begins in a home where communication never flowed freely.
5. Self-Actualization: Becoming Fully Who You Are
At the top of Maslow’s hierarchy is the drive to live fully — to create, to connect, to be authentic. But that can only happen when all the layers beneath are met.
According to Maslow’s hierarchy, when basic needs like communication, safety, and belonging remain unmet, it becomes nearly impossible to move toward the higher levels of growth and self-actualization. A person’s energy is consumed by the struggle to be understood and to feel safe in connection — needs that should have been secure from the start.
When Deaf people finally enter environments where sign language is valued — in Deaf schools, Deaf spaces, or loving relationships — you can see the transformation. They come alive. They laugh, dream, and lead with confidence.
It’s not because they “became better.” It’s because they were finally seen.
The Grief That Never Had to Be
What breaks my heart most is how unnecessary this pain is. With all we know now, families still choose to wait — to see if speech, technology, or “mainstreaming” will be enough.
But love without understanding is not connection.
The good news is that it’s never too late to begin again. I’ve seen incredible healing when families start learning to sign, to communicate — even decades later. The first time a parent signs “I love you” to their Deaf child, something sacred happens. The air shifts. The grief doesn’t disappear, but it softens.
That moment doesn’t erase the past — but it begins to heal it.
What Everyone Should Know
Language is not just communication. It’s the foundation of every human need: safety, belonging, love, identity, and growth.
If you have a Deaf family member, please — don’t wait. Learn to sign. Learn to connect. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s late.
Because the biggest regret I’ve ever heard, and the one I’ve lived, is this:
“I wish my family cared enough to communicate with me.”
Reflections for Families
Take a moment to sit with these questions:
- What would it mean to your loved one if you began learning their language — today?
- What emotions arise when you imagine finally being able to say “I love you” in a way they can truly understand?
- How might your family’s story change if communication became an act of love, not an obstacle?
Written by Joy Plote, LPC, CI/CT — a Coda, Licensed Professional Counselor, and advocate for Deaf and Coda mental health. Joy is the founder of The Space Between, a Deaf-centric counseling and education agency in Arizona dedicated to bridging Deaf, hearing, and Coda communities through trauma-informed care and connection.
the Coda Counselor 
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