Reclaiming Communication: How Sign Language Became My Safest Space and Why You Should Learn It Too

You know how sometimes something small—almost insignificant—can gently tug at the threads of your reality and suddenly unravel everything you thought you understood? That’s what happened to me with ASL.

It didn’t explode into my world like a grand epiphany. It returned like an old friend. One I forgot I needed. One I didn’t even realize had been standing quietly just outside the door.

Over 15 years ago, I used basic ASL to communicate with a deaf coworker. It wasn’t perfect—I was just piecing together words—but it was enough. Enough that they could be understood. Enough that I became their translator at work. And just like that, I was granted extra shifts. Why? Because connection matters. Because communication—real, inclusive, thoughtful communication—is everything. And I had a small bridge in a world full of barriers.

But then life shifted. I moved on. And slowly, that bridge crumbled from disuse. The signs faded. The reflex disappeared. And I didn’t think much of it—until now.

Because now, as I work through the layers of verbal masking, unmasking, and discovering what authentic communication actually looks like for me… ASL is back. And this time? It’s not just helpful. It’s essential.

I’ve started relearning the language in earnest. Practicing daily. Watching creators like KingRon41, who lives with Usher Syndrome and has created an entire universe of expressive, musical, educational signing. His energy is infectious. His intention is clear: to normalize sign. Watching him sign to songs didn’t just make me want to learn—it made me feel again. His videos turned signing into art, and somewhere in that rhythm, I remembered parts of myself I thought I’d buried forever.

Then there’s Serendipitous_Sign, a creator who uses PSE—Pidgin Signed English. It’s a bridge language that blends ASL’s grammar with English structure, often used by adults who lose hearing later in life. It’s adaptable, flowing, and widely accessible. For someone like me—who straddles verbal languages with trauma, who lives somewhere between fluency and silence—PSE feels like a doorway. A place I can enter without needing perfection or pretense. Her videos, many of them musical, pulse with passion. Her hands tell stories that the mouth often complicates. And watching her feels like witnessing inclusion in action.

After spending five hours—yes, five—hyperfocused on King Ron’s videos, I realized something profound: I was signing along. Not perfectly. Not fluently. But my brain was catching words. Remembering forms. And as I laid in bed afterward, I replayed every sign I knew. That night? I was giddy. I hadn’t felt that kind of peace in a long time.

ASL is natural for me. More natural than verbal speech on most days. And now, with my sister’s hearing deteriorating, it feels like life is echoing back the reminder: This matters. This isn’t just personal—it’s communal. It’s cultural. It’s survival.

But what hits the hardest is the awareness of why I’m drawn to it now.

I use excuses to sign publicly: “I’m practicing for my sister.” “Just brushing up—don’t want to get rusty.” These excuses keep me safely within society’s mold. The mold I wish I could set on fire and scatter across a mountaintop, never to be seen again.

Because under those excuses is the truth: I want to communicate without trauma. I want my hands to speak when my mouth refuses. I want to gesticulate—openly, freely, with fluid motion—without being judged. I want to reclaim a form of expression that lets me exist without performance.

Verbal masking has taught me just how much speech costs me. And ASL? ASL returns that cost with interest. Every time I sign, I feel like I’m actually communicating—not performing communication.

There’s also a truth most don’t understand: the less I speak verbally, the more I can tolerate audio input. My mind regulates better. I can process more. It’s counterintuitive, but it’s real. And I’m learning to embrace it, even if it complicates expectations others have of me.

Of course, there’s still a challenge ahead. I need others around me to learn. Not full fluency—just enough to understand. To read. To accept. Because sign shouldn’t be a solo experience. It should be collaborative. Inclusive. Shared.

And this is where my advocacy kicks in full force:

We need to teach sign language in schools. Across Canada. Across everywhere. We need to normalize it—not just for deaf communities, but for autistic kids, for mute children, for those with trauma, anxiety, selective mutism, sensory issues. For everyone who struggles to speak with their mouths but could thrive speaking with their hands.

We don’t teach it, and it isolates people.

We ignore it, and we lose opportunities to connect.

We treat it like a niche skill, when really it’s a universal invitation: Tell me who you are—how you are—without needing to sound like me.

And no, I’m not saying ASL should replace verbal language. I’m saying it should stand beside it. Be as normalized as learning French or Spanish. Be present in classrooms, workplaces, public spaces.

Because sign is not just a backup. It’s a primary language for millions. And it could be a saving grace for millions more.

Whether it’s ASL in North America, BSL in Britain, Auslan in Australia, LSF in France—whatever the sign language of your country—learn it. Start small. Follow creators. Watch songs. Practice basic words. Use it at home. At work. With friends. Get comfortable letting your hands speak for you.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be polished. Just make space for it.

Because for people like me? Sign language isn’t just communication.

It’s liberation.