Why Our Stories Matter: The Day That Could’ve Been Worse

I’ve gone back and forth about sharing this story — but it’s been sitting on my heart, and I know moments like this are why I keep showing up to share. This is about more than a car accident. It’s about what happens when people meet you where you are. It’s about access, understanding, and the small things that make a big difference.

 

In May, my family and I were rear-ended while driving to Mabel’s school.

We were all okay. The kids were in the backseat, and I’ll always be grateful for the spare tire mounted on the back of our SUV. It took most of the impact.

We were able to pull off the road safely to exchange information.

We had been waiting at a red light. Just before it turned green, a garbage truck turned into my lane — the right lane — and stopped just past the intersection to collect trash. I saw the driver get out and begin gathering bins. I knew I wouldn’t be able to move forward yet. Cars were steadily flowing in the left lane, and I couldn’t safely merge over. One by one, the cars behind me started moving into the left lane to go around. I stayed put, watching for a safe gap. As I was about to check my left mirror again, we were rear-ended. HARD. So hard that my glasses flew off my face. My head hit the steering wheel.

I remember looking over at Garin. Then at the kids.

I remember thinking, “What the fuck? Did that really just happen?”

The girls looked scared. Kevin was crying.

I felt helpless for a moment — frozen, like my body hadn’t caught up to what just happened. But seeing the woman pull over grounded me. It reminded me we weren’t alone.

While we were still catching our breath, two witnesses pulled over to help. One of them worked at Mabel’s school — and she knew we were Deaf.

She didn’t ask us if we needed anything.

She just acted.

She immediately called the school and asked if they could send an interpreter to the scene.

That one decision — without hesitation — changed everything for me. 

At the time, I was in shock. I was frozen in that strange, disoriented way that happens when something unexpected hits you. I was holding Kevin, our 2-month-old son, and trying to process what just happened. My brain was doing its best to stay calm, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak.

In situations like this, I usually will use my voice if I really need to — even though I prefer sign language. But this time... I just couldn't.

And I didn’t have to.

When the interpreter arrived, they became my voice.

I didn’t have to force myself to lip read through the fog of shock.

I didn’t have to guess what was being said or try to push myself to speak clearly.

I just signed — in my native language.

And that brought such relief.

It made me feel human again in the middle of chaos.

Even the at-fault driver could see how overwhelmed I was. After the witness let us know an interpreter was coming, he respectfully waited to speak until they arrived.

When the interpreter was there, he was kind and remorseful. He explained what steps we should take with insurance and encouraged us to take photos and gather evidence. He kept saying how bad he felt and told us we should all get checked out — especially the kids.

While we were waiting for the interpreter, Garin called 911 and requested for someone to come check on the children, especially Kevin. When the paramedics arrived, they looked over the kids and reassured us that everything looked okay. That gave me peace of mind in a moment that felt too big to carry.

And I want to be very clear about something:

This accident didn’t happen because I’m Deaf.

My being Deaf had nothing to do with it.

But you’d be surprised how often people assume otherwise.

People say things like, “Is it safe for a Deaf person to drive?” or “What if you can’t hear a siren?”

But I've been driving for nearly 20 years — safely and confidently. 

And in the two accidents I’ve been in, both times it was a hearing driver who wasn’t paying attention.

Deaf people can drive.

We’re often more visually alert because we rely less on sound.

We are responsible, focused, and capable behind the wheel.

What we need isn’t doubt.

It’s access.

It’s awareness.

It’s people who understand and support us — like the woman who didn’t wait for us to ask. She just knew.

That one act of awareness made the hardest part of that day a little easier.

This is what true inclusion looks like — not just accessibility after the fact, but proactive support in the moment.

This is why accessibility matters.

This is why the Deaf community shares our stories.

Because the more people know about Deaf culture, sign language, and our everyday lives — the easier it becomes to live in a world that’s not always built with us in mind.

So thank you, to the woman who knew. Thank you, to the interpreter who showed up. And thank you, to every ally who listens, learns, and acts.

If you’ve ever wondered how to support Deaf folks — this is it.

Awareness. Action. And never waiting to be asked.