My Personal Journal

Finding My Voice

Chapter Four: Finding My Voice

Time has a way of moving faster than we realize. One moment, I was in the comfort of primary school, surrounded by familiar faces and routines, and the next, I found myself standing at the gates of Redhill, a secondary school in Stourbridge. The transition wasn’t easy for me. While many of my peers seemed excited about this new chapter, I felt an uneasy sense of dread. It wasn’t the typical nerves of starting a new school; it was something deeper, a feeling that this place wasn’t quite right for me.

From the very beginning, I struggled to find my footing at Redhill. The classrooms were large, often filled with around thirty students, and it quickly became clear that the environment wasn’t designed with someone like me in mind. Being deaf meant that I needed specific support to thrive, especially in such a noisy and chaotic setting. I tried to adapt by sitting at the front of the class, straining to catch every word the teachers said. But even then, it was difficult. The lessons felt like a blur, the words of the teachers melding together in a way that was almost impossible for me to decipher.

It wasn’t the other pupils that concerned me; it was the sheer challenge of understanding what the teachers were trying to convey. Without the right support, I felt lost in a sea of sound, where important information often slipped through the cracks. There were days when the frustration was overwhelming, leaving me feeling daunted and isolated. I began to realize that my deafness wasn’t just a challenge I had to overcome—it was also something that the world around me needed to acknowledge and accommodate.

Unfortunately, at Redhill, that understanding wasn’t there. The deaf unit provided little support, and it felt as though my needs were an afterthought. The school seemed more focused on fitting me into their system rather than adapting the system to fit my needs. It became clear to me that this wasn’t the place where I could thrive. I needed an environment where my deafness wasn’t seen as a barrier, but rather as a part of who I am—a part that deserved respect and proper support.

I confided in my mum about my struggles, explaining how I felt like I was falling behind, not because I couldn’t understand the material but because I couldn’t access it in the first place. I told her I wanted to go somewhere else, somewhere where I could be myself without constantly fighting to be heard. My mum, always my fiercest advocate, immediately set to work finding a better option.

It wasn’t long before we discovered Mary Hare, a residential school in Newbury, Berkshire. From the moment I saw the school, I knew it was special. The grounds were beautiful, with sprawling lawns and historic buildings that looked like something out of a storybook. But more importantly, Mary Hare was a place that understood what I needed. It was a school specifically for deaf students, a place where I wouldn’t have to struggle to be understood or fight for the support I needed.

I remember arriving at Mary Hare for the first time, suitcase in hand, ready to start year 7. The nerves were there, of course—this was my first time staying away from home for an extended period—but there was also a sense of hope. The first person to greet me was Pembe, a fellow student. She was full of energy, singing a song as she approached me. But there was a small hitch—I couldn’t quite understand her. Pembe was using British Sign Language (BSL), while I was more familiar with Signed Support English (SSE).

It was a bit of a challenge at first, but Pembe, in her kind and adaptable way, quickly adjusted her communication style so that I could understand her. That small gesture meant the world to me. It was a sign that I was in the right place, a place where people were willing to meet me halfway, to communicate in a way that worked for me.

The first few days were tough—I missed home, my family, and the familiar comfort of my old life. But I could feel that I was beginning a new chapter, one where I could finally be myself. My mum, along with the school, the council, and the National Deaf Children’s Society (NDCS), fought hard to ensure that I could stay at Mary Hare. They went up against Redhill, arguing that I deserved to be in a place where I could truly succeed.

Their fight paid off, and soon enough, Mary Hare became my new home. It was more than just a school; it was a place where I found my voice, where I learned that my deafness wasn’t something to be hidden or overcome, but something to be embraced and understood. The experience at Redhill, as challenging as it was, taught me a valuable lesson: that my needs and my voice mattered, and that I deserved to be in a place where they were acknowledged and respected.

Chapter Five: Finding My Place at Mary Hare

After the summer holidays, I returned to Mary Hare for a fresh start. I was about to begin Year 8, a new chapter in my journey that would eventually carry me through to Sixth Form. Despite the excitement of a new school year, I couldn't shake the homesickness that had settled deep within me. Every weekend, I eagerly packed my bags and went home to be with my family, especially my mum. I cherished those moments with her more than anything. Seeing Robyn, my childhood friend, was another highlight of those weekends. Their presence was my anchor, grounding me when the newness of Mary Hare felt overwhelming.

At Mary Hare, I continued the speech therapy that had been a constant in my life since primary school. Those sessions were invaluable, helping me refine my communication skills and build confidence in interacting with teachers and peers. Mary Hare had a unique approach to education for deaf students. In the classroom, signing was not permitted; we were encouraged to speak and lip-read to enhance our verbal communication skills. Outside the classroom, however, we were free to sign, and it was then that I truly began to embrace British Sign Language (BSL). Transitioning from Signed Support English (SSE) to BSL was challenging at first, but I quickly adapted, eager to master a language that felt like it bridged the gap between my world and the hearing world.

By the time Year 9 rolled around, I had settled into life at Mary Hare. The school, once unfamiliar and daunting, had become a second home. I found comfort in the routines, the familiar faces of teachers and friends, and the caring staff who looked after us. The school grounds were vast, with the boys and girls housed in separate buildings. The girls lived in Manor, a stunning 19th-century house that exuded both history and warmth. The boys stayed in Mansell, located on the opposite side of the school grounds.

My bedroom in Manor faced a sprawling field, the largest I had ever seen. The field stretched out before me like a green ocean, its expanse both calming and awe-inspiring. At night, as the world outside our windows fell silent, the real adventures began. The bonds we formed at Mary Hare were strengthened during those quiet hours, as we often snuck out of our dormitories to visit friends in other rooms. Whether it was a whispered conversation in the hallway or a secret rendezvous in the bathroom, we found ways to connect and share moments that would become some of our most cherished memories.

Of course, we were often caught in the act. The care staff made their rounds every hour, ensuring that we were where we were supposed to be. If you were caught, the punishment was usually a stint sitting downstairs in the care office until you were allowed to return to bed. It was all in good fun, though, and even those moments of getting caught became part of the tapestry of our time at Mary Hare.

Mobile phones were strictly off-limits at night, locked away in our lockers until morning. This rule only added to the thrill of our late-night escapades. We knew the risks, but the fun of sneaking around and the thrill of possibly getting away with it were too tempting to resist. However, there were consequences for our mischief. Sometimes, if you were caught in the middle of the night, you'd be the last one allowed to go to Blunt Hall for breakfast. There was nothing more frustrating than arriving late and finding the breakfast trays empty—a lesson quickly learned and rarely forgotten.

In more serious cases, we would be summoned to the headteacher's office. Depending on the situation, this could range from a stern talking-to to more significant consequences. But even then, the camaraderie we shared made it all worth it. We were in it together, navigating the ups and downs of boarding school life with humor and resilience.

As I look back on those years at Mary Hare, I realize how much they shaped me. The homesickness, the speech therapy, the sneaky late-night adventures—they all played a part in helping me find my place in the world. Mary Hare was more than just a school; it was a place where I learned to embrace my identity, where I found my voice, and where I discovered that being deaf wasn’t a limitation, but a unique part of who I am.