I've been a sign language interpreter for over twelve years and an interpreter coordinator at a community college for over four years now. If you would have asked me at the beginning of 2020 what my career path looked like, I would have quickly responded getting specialized certifications and working as an ASL interpreter in the court system. My career path could not look more different now. Currently, I'm primarily a post-secondary educational interpreter as well as interpreter coordinator; for the first time I am heavily steeped in roles that previously only made up a fraction of my work as a freelance interpreter. The only administrative work I had experience with was running my own business as a sole proprietor. But now, in addition to the administrative work that I do at an academic institution, I have also been answering a growing need for exposing and educating about language inequities pertaining to the Deaf community as well as Deaf culture and intersectionality among our Deaf students. Though an integral part of interpreter, and part of our code of ethics is to "judiciously provide information or referral regarding available interpreting or community resources..." (NAD RID Code of Professional Conduct, Tenet 2.6), it has not always included changing paradigms or effecting change at the level of campus culture. This is where I feel I can make my biggest impact and the primary reason I have made the leap to go back to school and get my master's degree. I hope to gain insight in developing curriculum and other teaching material for hearing educators and administrators to make the classrooms and the campus a more equitable space for our Deaf students and the community at large. Going to graduate school was also never a thought in my mind before working in my current position. Furthering my education looked like hands on (and hands up) experience, professional development, mentoring and menteeing. But being accepted by Gallaudet University, the only all Deaf university in the entire country, feels like a huge boost in my confidence that these goals can be actualized and come to fruition. Being in conversation with the Deaf about their experiences in the education system, elementary through college, will provide me wealths of knowledge and experiences I never experienced myself. All of which I can learn from and take with me to enhance and hopefully change how our campus interacts with and considers students with diverse linguistic and cultural experiences.

Exactly two years ago, my fiance, and "dada" to our then sixteen-month old son, passed away. The grief roller coaster has been a very surreal and unpredictable ride ever since. If you would have asked me in January 2020 what my life would look like four years later, my answer would have been the complete opposite of what it is now. I never thought I would be a mom, let alone a single parent, never thought I'd have a partner to unexpectedly die at forty-two (the age I'm at now), never thought my career would take the turns it's taken, and I certainly never thought I'd ever go back to school to pursue a master's degree. Being a parent changes your perspective as well as your decision-making. As a single parent, you become acutely aware of the weight and impact of each decision you make. Going back to school is no longer a pursuit solely for myself. It's become a question of checks and balances, pros and cons, can enough good outweigh the bad. Considering earning a master's degree became more of a practice in reflection: if I do this, how can I balance work-life and mom-life and student-life; if I do this, how do I make it work financially; is it selfish to prioritize my want to go back to school; is this a smart decision to make... Though there are many difficult aspects about the grief process, one of them that comes up again and again is not having a partner to bounce all of the above off of. Part of the emotional load of grief is being the sole decision maker. It might seem empowering, and sometimes it can be, not having to answer to another person. But it is also exhausting. Not having that bit of reassurance you're making the right move can feel downright paralyzing. I still don't know if I'm making the right decision. I still don't know if I'll be able to juggle it all. And yet, here I am. Continuing to take all the necessary steps to make it happen. Here I am, continuing to want to show up as my best self for my son as well as myself. Here I am trying to rewrite the plans I'd made and dreams I'd had when my partner was alive. Wanting to make these new dreams feel just as authentic. When I opened my acceptance letter, all I could do was cry. This is a goal my partner never got to see, never even knew existed. But having something that's solely my own feels ok. And maybe grief is also helping to push me along on this part of my journey. I hope me furthering my education goes beyond providing for my family in a higher income bracket. Knowing I'm still here to be a model for my son, helps to motivate me. Knowing I have the opportunity to grow and change and flourish, while still being the best mom I can be, feels hugely empowering.

Exactly two years ago, my fiance, and "dada" to our then sixteen-month old son, passed away. The grief roller coaster has been a very surreal and unpredictable ride ever since. If you would have asked me in January 2020 what my life would look like four years later, my answer would have been the complete opposite of what it is now. I never thought I would be a mom, let alone a single parent, never thought I'd have a partner to unexpectedly die at forty-two (the age I'm at now), never thought my career would take the turns it's taken, and I certainly never thought I'd ever go back to school to pursue a master's degree. Being a parent changes your perspective as well as your decision-making. As a single parent, you become acutely aware of the weight and impact of each decision you make. Going back to school is no longer a pursuit solely for myself. It's become a question of checks and balances, pros and cons, can enough good outweigh the bad. Considering earning a master's degree became more of a practice in reflection: if I do this, how can I balance work-life and mom-life and student-life; if I do this, how do I make it work financially; is it selfish to prioritize my want to go back to school; is this a smart decision to make... Though there are many difficult aspects about the grief process, one of them that comes up again and again is not having a partner to bounce all of the above off of. Part of the emotional load of grief is being the sole decision maker. It might seem empowering, and sometimes it can be, not having to answer to another person. But it is also exhausting. Not having that bit of reassurance you're making the right move can feel downright paralyzing. I still don't know if I'm making the right decision. I still don't know if I'll be able to juggle it all. And yet, here I am. Continuing to take all the necessary steps to make it happen. Here I am, continuing to want to show up as my best self for my son as well as myself. Here I am trying to rewrite the plans I'd made and dreams I'd had when my partner was alive. Wanting to make these new dreams feel just as authentic. When I opened my acceptance letter, all I could do was cry. This is a goal my partner never got to see, never even knew existed. But having something that's solely my own feels ok. And maybe grief is also helping to push me along on this part of my journey. I hope me furthering my education goes beyond providing for my family in a higher income bracket. Knowing I'm still here to be a model for my son, helps to motivate me. Knowing I have the opportunity to grow and change and flourish, while still being the best mom I can be, feels hugely empowering.

Exactly two years ago, my fiance, and "dada" to our then sixteen-month old son, passed away. The grief roller coaster has been a very surreal and unpredictable ride ever since. If you would have asked me in January 2020 what my life would look like four years later, my answer would have been the complete opposite of what it is now. I never thought I would be a mom, let alone a single parent, never thought I'd have a partner to unexpectedly die at forty-two (the age I'm at now), never thought my career would take the turns it's taken, and I certainly never thought I'd ever go back to school to pursue a master's degree. My partner and I couldn't have been more different in terms of our upbringing. I'd always joke how i'd feel so "plain vanilla" compared to him and all his lived experiences. He called them his "stories." But later, I came to realize that he hid behind his stories. Though he was an incredible storyteller by trade, he'd was always read to shock friends and various audiences with "stories" that were always filled with crazy, harrowing ordeals, which you sometimes could not believe were possibly real. Yet they were. Come to understand later in our relationship, that these stories were often of him as a little boy, or a young boy, or a young teenager, or a teenager, going through an incredibly painful and often traumatic event in his life. Come to understand later in our relationship how those stories of trauma, abuse, and neglect shaped his own world view, poor self-worth, and an even poorer level of mental health. Lowell had always struggled with sever depression, though he'd been in a very healthy place when we'd met. Speaking of having completely opposite childhoods; he'd come from a divorced home with his father moving away while he was a baby, compared to my parents just celebrating their forty-fourth wedding anniversary and living in my childhood home; his mother remarried to an unsafe partner who was physically abusive, which I'd been fortunate to never experience; he was emancipated at fourteen years old, living on his own, had already experienced addiction, but still managed to get his GED and later support himself through college, whereas my parents paid for me to get my degree. I admired him for overcoming so many struggles and adversity, for his ability to persevere and maintain a positive outlook on the future, our future. But you can't control another person's behavior and you can't force them to take care of themselves, nor take better care of their health and mental well-being than they're willing and able to. Lowell had a bad history with depression and anti-anxiety medications, which made him reluctant to go down that route again. This instead led to a stubborn resistance to medical interventions, regularly seeing his doctors or therapists, which ultimately led to self-medicating. Learning firsthand about alcoholism and what it looks like up close, is not an experience I'd wish on anyone. The spiraling and manic episodes, were enough on its own to drive any partner crazy, but on top of a slew of other symptoms - physical, emotional, and mental - often times drove me to my knees; in teary, weepy, bundles on the floor. I'd experienced bouts of depression in my life, after a loss of a grandparent or pet, or when my mother was diagnosed with cancer. But I was fortunate that they had a starting and endpoint. My eyes have been opened after seeing how severe depression can break a person and ultimately be the driving force behind their demise. It is not an "easy fix," as many often jump to judge, nor is it a simple one. It is convoluted and often requires a team of people to support the person back to health. I'm not sure what's in store for me with relationships. Going through this experience has enlightened me to the parent I want to be, representing myself and my son's father. It's also helped me lean further into values my partner and I shared - that of self-care, of honesty, and of love. Those are the values I carry with me every day as a mom, and those are the values I wish to instill in my Little as he grows up in a single-parent home.

Exactly two years ago, my fiance, and "dada" to our then sixteen-month old son, passed away. The grief roller coaster has been a very surreal and unpredictable ride ever since. If you would have asked me in January 2020 what my life would look like four years later, my answer would have been the complete opposite of what it is now. I never thought I would be a mom, let alone a single parent, never thought I'd have a partner to unexpectedly die at forty-two (the age I'm at now), never thought my career would take the turns it's taken, and I certainly never thought I'd ever go back to school to pursue a master's degree. Grief has been a very surprising and very unpredictable experience; one you don't see depicted in the movies. The most shocking of which is the level of anger I've had to learn to accept and lean into. Anger at my partner being an alcoholic; anger for not doing enough in support of health to save himself; anger for being a single parent to the most incredible little person; anger for having to carry and process my son's grief until he's old enough to understand; anger for not being able to change anything. Lots of anger. In the beginning, I had so much resistance to feel what are deemed negative feelings. Often I'd sit down to journal and find myself not wanting to own up to, let alone identify, the feelings by name and I'd give up, opting instead of distract or resist my emotions. But that behavior can't sustain for long because eventually. Emotions don't evaporate over time, they cumulate and build, and eventually demand to be called out and released and, most importantly, felt. Once I finally learned it's best to accept the emotions I'm experiencing and move through them, is when the giant waves of grief diminished down to wavelets; shorter, more sporadic, and not nearly strong enough to knock you over. Though there are many difficult aspects about the grief process, one of them that comes up again and again is not having a partner to bounce all of the above off of. Part of the emotional load of grief is being the sole decision maker. It might seem empowering, and sometimes it can be, not having to answer to another person. But it is also exhausting. Not having that bit of reassurance you're making the right move can feel downright paralyzing. I've found a core, solid group of incredible people that have helped me navigate these heavy burdens. I feel so fortunate to have my parents, especially my mom, a tight-knit circile of incredible women whom I can go to for specific needs I may have. Some are for more practical things, like helping me around the house for two-person jobs or with babysitting. Some ladies have experienced their own grief and can understand and empathize my own experience with loss and acknowledge my grief journey. And some are there to hold space, which is the most invaluable gift of all. Though I'm still in practice, what I've found to be most supportive is having had the opportunity to surround myself with a wealth of loving and supportive people. Journaling and meditation are an incredible tool that have helped me slow down, helped me reflect, and helped me move forward when I've been incredible stuck. But therapy, being able to talk and express myself and relate to others, has proven to support me most.

Having a empathetic approach to those we serve is imperative for a successful partnership. Working as an ASL interpreter and an interpreter coordinator at a community college, I'm working to garner a deeper understanding of my students and the knowledge and experiences they bring with them to our campus. Having a more wholistic understanding of the Deaf students I serve on an intersectional level; their identities, cultural and linguistic backgrounds, what levels of accommodations they've received in K-12 and what accommodations would best support them now in post-secondary, and more. Creating a space of empathy for their struggles, their experiences with Audism and discrimination, of being labeled "disabled" or "handicapped," can only help me to empower them during their academic journey.

As a freelance interpreter for over twelve years and the Lead Interpreter / Coordinator at a Community College for the past four, I find more and more that self-advocacy is a much needed yet lacking skill among Deaf college-age students. While freelance interpreting at multiple campuses, you do not always garner a level of self-determination among the Deaf you are interpreting for. Though once you are out in the community interpreting for those same students, you start to see a commonality where many Deaf young adults are not fully aware of what their rights are. Nor are they always versed in policies or procedures that can benefit or hinder them if not followed correctly. Some Deaf may prefer not to make a fuss regarding accommodations, as is their right. On the other hand, some are not even aware of their rights under the ADA let alone educational rights and services they are entitled to receive. As a single parent, more and more I try to model self-advocacy, self-determination, and agency to my son. It's become a value and guiding principle within our home. As I reflect on the skills I'm trying to instill in my own son, I'm struck with it being at odds with the students I provide services for on campus. At some point in a Deaf student’s academic career, self-advocacy becomes an equally essential skill as reading, writing, and math. It is important for Deaf students to be able to understand and identify their needs so they are able to communicate to various (and often hearing) service providers what those needs are. In turn, understanding and voicing their needs makes matching and providing proper accommodations even more effective. Though many have experience with accessibility and language services, they don't always come equipped with the knowledge, verbiage, and experience of advocating for themselves. As an ally of the Deaf community, I want to be able to use my position at my institution to not only support students in their academic endeavors, but to also provide them with additional tools that can assist them in life. This equity gap has become the driving force for me to further my education and go back to school at 42 years old. I want to elevate our program and the services we offer to our Deaf and Hard of Hearing students and I'm hoping its impact will be felt in the Deaf community outside of campus.

Exactly two years ago, my fiance and "dada" to our then sixteen-month son, passed away. Our lives were complete opposites of each other. I grew up in a stable home with parents whom are still married to this day whereas my partner's life was filled with what he called his "stories." Though somewhat entertaining and often unbelievable, they were also filled with pain at the heart. He came from divorced parents, one whom moved away to start a new life and family of his own. Left with a narcissistic mother, my partner's childhood was filled with various forms of trauma and abuse and addiction until he was emancipated at just fourteen years old. He spun his life on track and on his own, managed to get his GED and later graduate from college, all while working full time. Meanwhile, I didn't move out of my parents' home until I was twenty-six, four years after graduating college myself. It was years later that the two of us met and not long after that we fell madly in love. He was a creative spirit and storyteller and I admired him for it. Though his ambitions were big, his motivation always seemed to run short. More and more, there always seemed to be obstacles. My loving words and encouragement seemed to have less and less of an impact until the bottom would always drop out. And that was the cycle I found ourselves to be on. The cycle of an alcoholic. One who suffers from severe depression and a long history of unhealed trauma, abandonment, and abuse. Ever the proud type, I'd only get snippets of information for fear I'd judge him. So I wouldn't always know something was bothering him until after the drinking binge was over. I wouldn't know that his mother had called to trigger him again, or that he'd been let go from his job, or that he was constantly struggling with feelings of failure and a nonexistent self-esteem. I wouldn't know about the missed doctors appointments, either from a stubborn lack of self-care or a fear of finding out how much he was actually deteriorating. Being in a relationship with an alcoholic, especially coming from a sheltered and, what I call, "plain vanilla" upbringing as I have, it becomes a very eye-opening experience. Happy endings aren't guaranteed and things aren't always "going to work out." Through the grief, you start to become cynical and the trust you used to give away freely, slows and stalls out completely. I have seen firsthand what severe mental health looks like and know firsthand that the downward spiral of severe depression and addiction ends in death. And I also know without him, I wouldn't have our toddler. Our son who is all the absolute best parts of him. This whole experience has left an indelible impression on me and how I perceive the world. It's left me seeing people more clearly, really seeing them. For all their traumas and histories and thoughts of self that they bring to the table. It's also left me to try to see people through a compassionate lens. And it's helped me to see how other's mental health issues effect them on a much deeper level than before.

Being a single mom is a humbling experience. Daily. One minute you're managing to play with your kiddo, while making them breakfast, packing their lunch, managing to get in a few sips of coffee, and get out the door and to preschool on time. You're on top of the world, feeling like you can handle anything that gets thrown at you. And the next moment, you're late because that same kiddo that was playful and sweet and affectionate all morning, has decided to not get out of the car for reasons unknown, well actually for about twenty unrelated and yet very important reasons. And now you feel like you've failed at motherhood and life in general. Once you've managed to get over the emotional meltdown and get through your workday, the melodrama starts all over again when picking your kiddo up from school. The boo-boos and owies and tears are all such an easy fix. The heart breaks wide open and the love and need to hug and soothe comes pouring out so easily and readily. It's those moments in between that are the struggle. The moments where you also want to scream and shout and have a breakdown, the moments where you cannot vacuum the floor one more time or do one more load of laundry, or be whined at or yelled at for one more thing, that are the true testaments of what you as a mom are made of. And it's those moments where you want to run and hide and take a breather the most that depending on how you show up, will leave you feeling like you're the biggest failure or like you can actually do this after all. And if in those moments you're able to pause and shift your perspective, you find most learning moments from kiddo to mama are based in compassion. It's fascinating how our Littles can trigger us. Sometimes I feel like my toddler is completely ignoring me or is going out of their way to annoy me to find where my true boundaries lie. But shifting perspective when I'm feeling ignored to realizing my need to feel heard. Realizing my son is so engrossed with play or with the lyrics of a song that he isn't able to process what I'm saying on a very physical level. Or taking a pause when I'm irritated at cleaning up spilled water for the umpteenth time that day to see my son as the little scientist toddlers are. That at this age they still explore with their hands and mouths, through touch and taste, and not just with their eyes. Having the compassion to meet my toddler where he's at - age wise, developmentally, emotionally. Taking a pause to remind myself he's not hitting because he lacks empathy but because he's too tired or overstimulated or unable to aptly express himself at three years old. Using the lens of compassion has brought me to where I am now professionally. It has shifted my work to include stronger advocacy for the individuals and communities I serve. Compassion has helped me to understand how I want more information about the student I'm engaging with and what their needs are to better accommodate them. Being a mom has been teaching me how I want to show up as a better version of myself. Practicing compassion is the first step in doing that.

Exactly two years ago, my fiance, and "dada" to our then sixteen-month old son, passed away. The grief roller coaster has been a very surreal and unpredictable ride ever since. If you would have asked me in January 2020 what my life would look like four years later, my answer would have been the complete opposite of what it is now. I never thought I would be a mom, let alone a single parent, never thought I'd have a partner to unexpectedly die at forty-two (the age I'm at now), never thought my career would take the turns it's taken, and I certainly never thought I'd ever go back to school to pursue a master's degree. Being a parent changes your perspective as well as your decision-making. As a single parent, you become acutely aware of the weight and impact of each decision you make. Going back to school is no longer a pursuit solely for myself. It's become a question of checks and balances, pros and cons, can enough good outweigh the bad. Considering earning a master's degree became more of a practice in reflection: if I do this, how can I balance work-life and mom-life and student-life; if I do this, how do I make it work financially; is it selfish to prioritize my want to go back to school; is this a smart decision to make... Though there are many difficult aspects about the grief process, one of them that comes up again and again is not having a partner to bounce all of the above off of. Part of the emotional load of grief is being the sole decision maker. It might seem empowering, and sometimes it can be, not having to answer to another person. But it is also exhausting. Not having that bit of reassurance you're making the right move can feel downright paralyzing. I still don't know if I'm making the right decision. I still don't know if I'll be able to juggle it all. And yet, here I am. Continuing to take all the necessary steps to make it happen. Here I am, continuing to want to show up as my best self for my son as well as myself. Here I am trying to rewrite the plans I'd made and dreams I'd had when my partner was alive. Wanting to make these new dreams feel just as authentic. When I opened my acceptance letter, all I could do was cry. This is a goal my partner never got to see, never even knew existed. But having something that's solely my own feels ok. And maybe grief is also helping to push me along on this part of my journey.