If you know me, you know that when I commit to an engagement event, whether it’s a policy meeting, a consultation group, or simply showing up to advocate, I bring my whole heart and all my energy. I want to make a difference.

But here is a truth that is often invisible to those outside our community: by the time I arrive at engagement events, wanting to make a difference, my days have already been full. Not full of emails or errands, but full of micro-barriers and attitudinal blocks that, albeit often unintentional, have the cumulative effect of blocking access to services, opportunity, and sometimes even joy.

It’s exhausting. And this constant, low-level drain is what truly impacts my ability to show up as my best, most powerful self-advocate.

The core of this daily drain lies in something called microaggressions.

Microaggressions are the everyday, often subtle, verbal, nonverbal, and environmental indignities, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative slights and insults toward people based on their marginalised group membership.

Think of it this way: a single drop of water on its own is nothing. But hundreds of drops, hour after hour, eventually fill a glass, then spill over, and can even erode stone. Microaggressions are those small, frequent drops that chip away at a person’s sense of belonging and well-being.

For deaf and deafblind people, these slights often centre on communication, competence, and presence.

Below are a few examples of how this can show up in everyday engagement contexts.

These are comments or actions that question or undermine a deaf or deafblind person’s primary means of communication.

'You can just rely on friends and family'
A denial of the need for reasonable adjustments, accessible information standards, or professional interpreting support.

The underlying message:
Your access needs are inconvenient, and your communication method is not valid. If you are a military spouse, you are expected to rely on friends or family despite constantly changing circumstances.

The 'last-minute invite'
Receiving invitations so late that it becomes impossible to book professional interpreters. Organisers may say they will try to book access if the person wants to attend, but this reverses responsibility. 

Services should design events to be accessible first, and then offer people the freedom to attend, rather than placing participants in the position of wondering if they will get any last-minute access. 

The underlying message:
Your participation is welcome only if it does not require forethought, resources, or organisational change. The risk, stress, and labour of securing access are yours to absorb, not the system’s responsibility. 

Expecting the deaf person to carry the cognitive load of communication (for example, relying on lip-reading) without discussion of communication preferences or limitations.

The underlying message:
If communication fails, this is framed as a deficit on the deaf or deafblind person’s part, rather than a professional’s lack of understanding about the limits of lip-reading. 

These undermine a deaf or deafblind person’s perceived ability to understand, contribute, or participate.

'Speaking through the gatekeeper'
When discussing an upcoming planned group discussion, the host directs a question to the interpreter rather than the deaf participant who is due to turn up to take part: 'Would she like to be involved or remain out for the group work?'

The underlying message:
No other participant is assumed to be present simply to observe. The deaf person, however, is treated as though they may be incapable of direct engagement or decision-making, requiring their contribution to be filtered through a third party. 

Expecting the deaf person to repeatedly confirm attendance before access is arranged, unlike other participants, rather than listening to their guidance on how interpreters and meetings should be managed. The result is often that no interpreter is booked.

The underlying message:
As a professional, I know more about deafness than you do. Your lived expertise does not inform my practice.

These are subtle but concrete systemic failures that force disabled people to repeatedly advocate for basic access.

Inaccessible digital information
Websites without transcripts, videos without captions, apps and websites that are not adaptable or public announcements that exclude deaf or deafblind users.

The underlying message:
Your participation was not considered when this resource was created.

Exclusionary briefings
Events where all guidance is framed around “listening” or “hearing,” making the need for one-to-one clarification obvious and placing additional cognitive and emotional labour on the deaf or deafblind participant.

I want to share one final, concrete example, because it illustrates how a seemingly small action can deliver a powerful exclusionary message.

I recently attended a drop-in event for a new military/NHS building. Because of my visual impairment, I find printed materials more accessible than screens. I had been quietly reading the accessible Frequently Asked Questions sheets when a staff member approached. Without speaking to me or checking whether I had finished, they removed the sheets from my hands and placed them on a desk shared by two armed forces officers, not for anyone else's immediate use.

A small action, perhaps, but the message was unmistakable. I was prevented from accessing an accessible public document for no reason. When access is removed, intentionally or not, it sends a clear signal: your engagement is secondary to our convenience.

While this often feels like an uphill battle, true inclusion is possible.

I recently attended a major two-day event run entirely by volunteers. After the first day, it was clear the environment was challenging. Information delivery relied heavily on 'listen for this' cues, and I required significant one-to-one support, which was noticeable compared to others.

Overnight, however, the volunteers clearly reflected on accessibility. On the second day, the atmosphere shifted immediately. While I still required more support than the average participant, information was delivered differently, and engagement improved.

It felt genuinely good to offer positive feedback. It was a win-win: I was able to participate with far greater ease and felt good giving them good feedback and you could tell they felt better knowing what to do. It demonstrated that genuine acknowledgment, paired with the will to adapt, can transform engagement.

I am not sharing this to assign blame, but to illuminate the unseen weight many of us carry. It explains why, when I finally reach an engagement meeting, I may appear quieter or less energetic than I want to be. I have already fought a hundred small battles just to be present.

My most important message, especially to those of us who share this experience, is this: your fire is still bright, and your perspective is vital.

Every microaggression reflects not your worth, but society’s unfinished work. Your lived experience, and willingness to show up are essential to that evolution.

Do not let the noise of a thousand small cuts silence the roar of your necessary voice.

You are important. Your presence is power, and we will keep pushing, drop by drop, until the cup overflows with true inclusion.

When this quiet burden meets systems that fail to listen or adapt, something has to give. In my next piece, I explain what I am choosing to change in terms of my energy and focus, and why.

#deaf #deafblind #coproduction