The makings of greatness: A deaf athlete’s message to families and children

It’s been a few years since I last wrote a blog for the National Deaf Children's Society. From retiring as an Olympic swimmer, to getting a full-time job, I’ve found myself slipping away from my roots and the things that once lit up something in me and made me feel like I had purpose. One of those things is being a role model for deaf children: something I feel so passionate about and something that means so much to me.

Being a role model

Last year I was contacted by a director from active schools who said that the teachers of one primary school were looking to see if I would be willing to spend some time with their deaf and hard-of-hearing pupils by coming in and speaking to them about my life, my swimming and my career. I was over the moon that even 8 years since retiring from competitive swimming, I was still a name known to deaf children and parents.

We got the ball rolling and agreed that I would meet with the kids on a Thursday morning and take them for an hour of sport, exercise and games. The first week, I was to talk to them about my life as a deaf person and the things I’ve done in my life. Parents were invited in too, and it was so nice to be able to speak to them and reassure them that just because their child is deaf, it doesn’t mean they're a lost cause.

My presentation actually brought a few parents to tears – I think tears of relief. They had been so worried their child would not be able to succeed as much as their hearing peers or live a normal life, yet here I was proof in front of them that deaf people can do whatever they set their mind to.

Starting my career

I retired from competitive swimming with 10 Deaf World Records, 4 Deaflympic medals (2 gold and 2 bronze), Deaf Sports Personality of the Year, Scotland's Sports Woman of the Year (not just deaf – mainstream too!), and double world and European champion.

I graduated from the University of Stirling with an upper-class honours degree in sport and exercise science. After that, I started my own business as a personal trainer. I built up my own little empire from scratch, with help and support from my parents, and met so many incredible people throughout.

However, Covid then hit, and it was hard to earn an income big enough to both afford to live life as well as put money away in my savings.

I applied and got a full-time job working for the government where I’ve been based for the last 3 years. I managed to save up enough money to put down a deposit and move in to my own place that I call home.

At work, I’m the only deaf officer they have in Scotland, and quite possibly the UK. I have things in place that allow me to be flexible with my deafness, such as a working from home once a week. There's a room I can go into by myself to concentrate when the office gets busy or loud and I become overstimulated or tired from lip-reading and listening to people.

My line manager recently ordered sound boards for me, which means I can have a little less distraction and noise in the office, which in turn means I’m not as tired after work and have energy to do things that fill my cup.

I have an assigned desk that I find is the best sound-wise for me. It faces the full office so I'm aware when somebody is speaking to me.

Being part of a Crossfit community

I’m part of a community at Crossfit, where I train twice a day. In one gym, I’m the only deaf athlete that I know about. In my other gym, my coach and friend Meg had started to wear hearing aids too. It was really nice to be able to talk to her about it all before she got them, answer any questions she had, and try to reassure her as best as I could that although it's scary, it’s not the end of the world. You’ll adapt, you’ll overcome, and you’ll thrive – just like you did before going deaf.

Surrounding myself with the right people

I’m 28 now. I’ve spent nearly half of my life profoundly deaf now. And honestly? I’m thriving.

I have a life full of friends and family, who all support and take my needs into consideration for things people wouldn’t even think of – like oh we’re going for dinner, where will be a quiet place for Danii? Or if I’m in the gym, and it’s loud and busy, Meg or the other coaches, or even other people in the class, will always make sure I know what’s happening or what I’ve got to do, whether it be by sign or hand gestures, or repeating themselves 4, 5, 6 times for me.

And the amazing thing is, I don’t even need to ask for people to do this – because surrounding yourself with the right people means you don’t feel like a burden. My best friend knows that I have a low social battery and that I can be quite anxious around lots of new people, especially in loud or busy places. For her birthday, she knew I wouldn’t want to be part of her night out with lots of drunk people, so instead we climbed a Munro together one year, and went to a pottery painting the next.

Because the people that I love and who love me know exactly what I need without me having to ask. Because being deaf is just a part of who I am now, and the people I care about care about me enough to adapt their life for me.

We don’t always have to be the ones doing the adapting. Our life is hard enough. Finding and surrounding yourself with people who will make it just that little bit easier for you means the world.

My favourite part about being deaf

At the school, I asked the children what their favourite part about being deaf was. I got the answers that I expected, because I too resonate.

"I can take my ears out when it’s too noisy. I don’t get woken up when I sleep. I can talk with my hands to my other deaf friends and people don’t know what we’re saying."

I asked them what they didn’t like about being deaf, and again, I could relate.

"I feel left out sometimes. I can’t hear in busy places. I get tired really easily."

I asked the parents what they struggled with, with their child being deaf.

"In an argument, he’ll take his aids out and close his eyes so I have no means of communicating with him. I worry he’ll always feel isolated and left out. I’m scared she’ll not succeed in her career or have the chance to have one."

And then I asked the parents what they loved about their child being deaf. And I was hit with –

“I don’t think anybody has ever asked me that. And I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about it.”

So tell me. You’ve just sat in a classroom with your deaf child, and a bunch of other deaf children, and listed to me out loud what you do not like or struggle with about them and their lack of hearing. So now tell me, out loud, what you love. Because I can guarantee that those are the words that your child will remember from today.

"I love how I can be as noisy as I like in the morning and at night knowing he won’t stir. I love the way she learned sign language and teaches other people she meets some words. I love that we always have the subtitles on, because god knows I secretly need them too. I love that she has so many other deaf friends."

Having high expectations

Going deaf, I remember my parents blaming themselves. Especially my mum. And in my moments of frustration and outbursts, I did too. But knowing that they loved me, deaf or not, was all I needed to know that everything was OK and was going to be OK.

I went profoundly deaf suddenly, unexpectedly, mid exams at school.

And yet I got an A in higher music and French. Both of which included a listening element. A deaf person getting an A in listening exams. Literally… what?

I thank my parents every day for that. For their support and belief in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. They were the pillars of my support system. And without them and their constant voices telling me I could do whatever, I could be whatever, I could go wherever I wanted to go in this life, I probably wouldn’t have amounted to much. I’d have lacked that self-belief, that courage, that fire in my heart that yeah, life might look a little bit different now, but that doesn’t mean it has to be a bad one.

Deaf Olympic golds. Upper class honours degree. Sporting scholarship. A’s and B’s in all higher exams. Ran my own business. Grade 8 tuba player in the west of Scotland orchestra. Scotland's Sports Woman of the Year. Officer for the government. All of this, driven by the support and belief that my parents had for me. Without them, I am nothing. They taught me the importance of loving myself and believing in myself just as much as they do.

I asked the parents at the school if they were scared. They all nodded. Scared of what?

"They won’t live a normal life. They won’t be able to get a job. They won't be able to cope without me, and I won’t always be here."

They will. They will. They will.

If you believe that they won’t, they’ll believe that they won’t. It starts with you. They listen and believe what you tell them. This big bad world wants them to believe and will continually try to prove that they won’t be able to succeed, they won’t live a normal life, they can’t get a job, that that’s the hand they’ve been given and to play with those cards. Put those cards down, grab a new deck.

I ended my presentation with one of my favourite quotes. I have it tattooed on my arm. Because it’s a quote that I think about when things seem too far out of reach, or I doubt myself and I blame my deafness. It’s from my favourite Disney film Treasure Planet, and if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend you go watch it. With the subtitles on.

“You got the makings of greatness in you, but you got to take the helm and chart your own course. Stick to it, no matter the squalls. And when the time comes you get the chance to really test the cut of your sails, and show what you're made of… well, I hope I'm there, catching some of the light coming off you that day. You’re gonna rattle the stars, you are.”

We all have the makings of greatness in us. We just need that one person to believe in us that we do.