The Pursuit of Belonging
Jessica Aiello
Imagine, at seven years old, you run home from the bus stop, open the door, and see your parents in the kitchen. Just as you get ready to open your mouth and tell them about your day, you remember.
They can’t hear you.
Not because they’re distracted or because they’re wearing earbuds, but because they’re Deaf.
That was my childhood.
I'm a CODA, a Child of Deaf Adults. I was born hearing to two Deaf parents, and for most of my childhood, and honestly much of my adult life, I had no idea where I belonged.
Growing up, I lived between the Deaf world and the hearing world. Eventually, I realized there was a third world too: the one I created by becoming who each world needed me to be, instead of discovering who I was. Somewhere in that space, I learned to hide parts of myself. That's where the mask began to form.
In the hearing world, I wore a mask of distance. People knew my parents were Deaf, but I kept them at arm's length from the people I most wanted to fit in with. I did not want to be different. In the Deaf community, the community I loved and that felt like home, I wore a mask of sameness. I started stuffing paper towels in both ears, then I upgraded. I had custom ear molds made and wore my mother's extra hearing aid so I could fit in.
Underneath the distance, the ear molds, and the constant calculation of who I needed to be in every room, I had created an entire performance. It was a performance not unlike those that so many of us build from scratch over time, often without realizing it. In one way or another, we all know what it feels like to be different and to carry parts of ourselves that feel complicated, misunderstood, or difficult to explain. At one point or another, the thought has crossed our minds: Will the full version of who we are ever be accepted? But awareness didn't mean I was ready to end my performance. Life has a funny way of returning us to the lessons we think we understand, often in the most unexpected ways. And mine came through my daughter.
In my thirties, after having two boys, I adopted a fourteen-month-old baby girl from India named Riley. Riley was born Deaf. I won't pretend that wasn't part of what drew me to her. Somewhere deep inside, I longed to belong to someone who understood part of my world without translation. I thought I was helping her find her way home, but really, she was helping me find mine.
Three weeks after she arrived, we discovered that she could hear. Fewer than two percent of children with her diagnosis spontaneously regain hearing before the age of two, and Riley was one of them.
Riley is now ten years old and navigating her own questions about identity. A few months ago, as I tucked her into bed, she quietly said, “Mom, I'm embarrassed that I have white parents.”
At that moment, something happened that I still can't fully describe. It was a felt sense. Instant. Physical.
I wasn't just looking at my daughter. I was looking at myself. I saw the little girl who wished her parents weren't Deaf, who wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else. All I could do was pull Riley close.
All those years, all those masks, all that performing I thought I was doing to try to be seen by other people, when really, what the little girl inside was searching for was something deeper. It was for me to finally listen and get quiet enough to hear what was there underneath it all.
It took my daughter expressing her own inner struggle between worlds to teach me more about belonging than I could’ve ever imagined, and for us to move through these moments together, each with different lived experiences, but holding up a mirror that reflects our desire for belonging. And for the first time, I wasn’t looking away.
What I was searching for, and what I believe many of us are searching for, is not the feeling of finally fitting in. It was the freedom of finally accepting myself. True belonging begins when we allow the parts of ourselves we have kept hidden to be seen, first by ourselves and eventually by the people closest to us. When we stop trying to edit ourselves to fit the room, something changes. We become the kind of people who create spaces where others no longer feel they have to edit themselves, either.
About Jessica Aiello
Jessica Aiello is the Founder and CEO of TCS Interpreting, a national leader in ASL interpreting and captioning services. A CODA (Child of Deaf Adults), entrepreneur, executive mentor, and mother of four, Jessica bootstrapped her multimillion-dollar company from the ground up, guided by a single conviction: that equitable access and true belonging are not initiatives. They are the conditions under which people and businesses actually thrive. She speaks internationally on the most underestimated force in leadership: belonging.
Learn More
https://www.tcsteams.com/
They can’t hear you.
Not because they’re distracted or because they’re wearing earbuds, but because they’re Deaf.
That was my childhood.
I'm a CODA, a Child of Deaf Adults. I was born hearing to two Deaf parents, and for most of my childhood, and honestly much of my adult life, I had no idea where I belonged.
Growing up, I lived between the Deaf world and the hearing world. Eventually, I realized there was a third world too: the one I created by becoming who each world needed me to be, instead of discovering who I was. Somewhere in that space, I learned to hide parts of myself. That's where the mask began to form.
In the hearing world, I wore a mask of distance. People knew my parents were Deaf, but I kept them at arm's length from the people I most wanted to fit in with. I did not want to be different. In the Deaf community, the community I loved and that felt like home, I wore a mask of sameness. I started stuffing paper towels in both ears, then I upgraded. I had custom ear molds made and wore my mother's extra hearing aid so I could fit in.
Underneath the distance, the ear molds, and the constant calculation of who I needed to be in every room, I had created an entire performance. It was a performance not unlike those that so many of us build from scratch over time, often without realizing it. In one way or another, we all know what it feels like to be different and to carry parts of ourselves that feel complicated, misunderstood, or difficult to explain. At one point or another, the thought has crossed our minds: Will the full version of who we are ever be accepted? But awareness didn't mean I was ready to end my performance. Life has a funny way of returning us to the lessons we think we understand, often in the most unexpected ways. And mine came through my daughter.
In my thirties, after having two boys, I adopted a fourteen-month-old baby girl from India named Riley. Riley was born Deaf. I won't pretend that wasn't part of what drew me to her. Somewhere deep inside, I longed to belong to someone who understood part of my world without translation. I thought I was helping her find her way home, but really, she was helping me find mine.
Three weeks after she arrived, we discovered that she could hear. Fewer than two percent of children with her diagnosis spontaneously regain hearing before the age of two, and Riley was one of them.
Riley is now ten years old and navigating her own questions about identity. A few months ago, as I tucked her into bed, she quietly said, “Mom, I'm embarrassed that I have white parents.”
At that moment, something happened that I still can't fully describe. It was a felt sense. Instant. Physical.
I wasn't just looking at my daughter. I was looking at myself. I saw the little girl who wished her parents weren't Deaf, who wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else. All I could do was pull Riley close.
All those years, all those masks, all that performing I thought I was doing to try to be seen by other people, when really, what the little girl inside was searching for was something deeper. It was for me to finally listen and get quiet enough to hear what was there underneath it all.
It took my daughter expressing her own inner struggle between worlds to teach me more about belonging than I could’ve ever imagined, and for us to move through these moments together, each with different lived experiences, but holding up a mirror that reflects our desire for belonging. And for the first time, I wasn’t looking away.
What I was searching for, and what I believe many of us are searching for, is not the feeling of finally fitting in. It was the freedom of finally accepting myself. True belonging begins when we allow the parts of ourselves we have kept hidden to be seen, first by ourselves and eventually by the people closest to us. When we stop trying to edit ourselves to fit the room, something changes. We become the kind of people who create spaces where others no longer feel they have to edit themselves, either.
About Jessica Aiello
Learn More
https://www.tcsteams.com/
