Growing up, I faced challenges no child should have to. My hearing loss wasn’t seen as part of who I was but as something to overcome—or worse, to hide. Doctors told my family not to let me use more than one hearing aid, warning that I might become "dependent." They even said I should only wear it during school hours, as if I didn’t need to hear after the bell rang. It was a lonely experience, and I often felt like I had to fight just to exist in a world that wouldn’t accommodate me.

​

In high school, the isolation deepened when I was bullied for being deaf. Seeking help, I turned to my principal, hoping for support. Her response still haunts me: "That's the difference between you and me. You tell other people your problems. I don’t tell other people my problems." Instead of addressing the issue, she dismissed my concerns. Later, she suggested I pursue vocational training instead of regular academics—not because I lacked ability, but because she assumed someone like me couldn’t live a "normal" life. Her words were crushing, but they fueled my determination to prove her wrong.

​

Years later, as a special educator, I witnessed the same dismissive attitudes directed at my students. Parents were told not to expect too much, not to “spoil” their children with accommodations. I saw families struggling to find reliable therapists or effective support systems, often settling for subpar services out of desperation. Their frustration and heartbreak mirrored my own, and I knew something had to change.

​

These experiences inspired me to create Carely—a resource that could have transformed my life as a child and now empowers families to access the support they need. Carely exists to provide the guidance, understanding, and professional networks so many families desperately seek. It’s my way of turning personal pain into purpose, ensuring no child or parent feels lost or unsupported.