Salman Unplugged

Chapter 16: The Rejection That Came in Many Forms

Hello Fellas!
Did you miss me? I hope so — because I’m back with a full heart and another chapter.
Also… if the last vlog or post made you tear up, I’m sorry — but I won’t pretend life was all rainbows.
Sometimes reflecting on society does hurt. And it should.

This chapter dives into something that’s hard to relive but even harder to ignore:
Rejection.
Not the kind that happens once or twice, but the kind that comes from every direction — family, friends, neighbors, even people who should’ve protected you.

In those days, rejection was at its peak. And what made it harder?
It didn’t always come in obvious ways.
Sometimes it was subtle.
Other times it was loud.
But it always cut deep.

I remember trying to fit in with my cousins — the same kids I grew up watching cartoons with, the same faces I saw at every wedding or gathering.
But when they formed groups, they’d exclude me.
When I tried to sit with them, they’d get up.
When I cracked a joke, no one laughed.

I tried — over and over — to be part of their world.
But each time, I was left on the outside.

My mother?
She was there to catch the tears when I cried.
But even she couldn’t change the way others treated me.
She did her best — and I never blamed her for not being able to protect me from invisible wounds.

I remember going to elders to explain what I was feeling, hoping they’d speak to the others.
Instead… they’d side with the ones who shut me out.

“He must have done something. He needs to adjust.”

Every time I spoke up, I was made to feel like the problem.
Every rejection… was somehow my fault.

And when that happens repeatedly, especially as a child — you start to believe it.

You start to wonder:
Maybe I am too different.
Maybe I don’t belong.

And that… that’s the kind of rejection that doesn’t leave bruises on your skin — it leaves them on your self-worth.

Chapter 15: Awards, Assumptions & the Power of Being Seen

Let’s talk about something else — something that stings more than silence.

Being ignored. Dismissed. Looked at — but not seen.

As I started doing well in school, I began to rack up awards.

Certificates, medals, trophies.

I wasn’t just “coping” with school — I was actually excelling.

But that didn’t magically erase the stigma.

Parents in my school circles still pulled their children away from me.

Not out of cruelty, but out of fear.

Some believed — and I swear this is true — that deafness could be caught, like the flu.

They actually thought that if their child spent time with someone like me, they might “become” like me too.

Let that sink in.

A medical condition. A physical reality.

Seen as something contagious. Something to avoid.

And what’s worse?

These beliefs didn’t come from uneducated strangers.

They came from everyday people.

They came from educated, well-dressed, well-spoken adults who simply didn’t know better — or worse, didn’t care to learn.

So while I stood on school stages, receiving honors for my achievements…

While my name was called out in assemblies…

While my teachers praised me for my growth…

There were still kids whispering behind my back.

Still mothers shielding their children.

Still “aunties” offering me sympathy, instead of respect.

Because to them, I wasn’t a full person.

I was a “case.”

I was “that boy with hearing problems.”

But not Salman.

Not the kind, determined, hard-working student who had fought his way into mainstream life.

Even within my own family — while my maternal side lifted me with love and pride, my paternal side often didn’t acknowledge my progress.

They never said it out loud. They didn’t need to.

The distance said enough.

“It’s possible to be winning on paper and still feel like you’re losing in people’s eyes.”

But I didn’t let that stop me.

Because every time someone saw my difference as a weakness — I turned it into a reason to work harder.

Every time someone looked away — I stood taller.

And every time someone doubted me — I quietly proved them wrong.

Not to make them clap.

But to remind myself: I deserve to be seen.

And so do millions of others like me.

Chapter 14: The Mindset That Fought Me the Most

What’s up guys!

I’m back — refreshed, recharged, and ready to share a chapter that’s not about one moment, but about a mindset.

A mindset I’ve had to battle my entire life.

This won’t be a post about a specific event or funny school memory.

This is about something deeper.

Something heavier.

From as early as I can remember, the real fight wasn’t just with my hearing loss.

It was with the mindsets of people around me — how they saw me, how they labeled me, how they expected less from me… sometimes without even realizing it.

Let’s be real: growing up with hearing loss in a society that doesn’t understand it… isn’t easy.

People were polite on the surface. They’d smile. Nod. Say “mashAllah” when I won awards.

But behind that — there was often pity. There was discomfort. There was a silent lowering of expectations.

Even in family circles, I noticed the difference.

I wasn’t treated like someone who was “just another kid.”

I was treated like someone whose life was almost normal… but not quite.

And it wasn’t just strangers or acquaintances.

Even within my own family — the place where we expect unconditional support — I was seen as “different.”

Being the first and only child with hearing loss in my family, I had no one to relate to, no older sibling to look up to, and no footsteps to follow.

I had to become my own guide — figuring everything out for the first time.

And that came with the unspoken pressure to prove myself at every stage.

Every time I entered a classroom.

Every time I tried a new activity.

Every time I stood on stage.

I knew I was not just representing myself.

I was representing what people believed deaf kids could or couldn’t do.

And then there’s the national mindset — a huge part of this chapter.

In our culture, “deaf” is too often assumed to mean “dumb.”

Worse yet, people believe hearing loss is linked with low intelligence.

They associate it with being unable to think, process, or lead.

And let’s be honest — that stigma is still alive today in many places.

So I had to grow up knowing that before I opened my mouth, people had already decided what I was capable of.

“You don’t just fight for your voice — you fight for the right to be heard.”

But if there’s one thing this chapter taught me… it’s that mindsets can be more disabling than any diagnosis.

And breaking those? That became my purpose.

Chapter 13: Mocked, Marginalized, and Still Moving Forward

In the 6th year of my life, I started learning that even when you’re doing your best, people still find a way to mock what they don’t understand.

Back then, smartphones weren’t really a thing. So socializing didn’t happen on screens — it happened in real life. Gatherings, get-togethers, weddings, family events — those were the norm.

And yet, I was told not to attend.

Why?

Because of how I looked… with my hearing aids.
I was told they didn’t look “nice.”
That they were uncomfortable to see.
And I was just six.

Can you imagine telling a six-year-old they shouldn’t attend a family function… because of a medical device that helps them hear the world?

It’s a strange kind of heartbreak — when you start feeling like your presence is something to hide. That your difference is something to be ashamed of.

And it didn’t stop there.

I was also mocked by other kids.
Not because I had done anything wrong.
But because my speech had an accent — shaped by years of learning to talk while hearing things differently.
I became an easy target for bullies.
And while the adults pretended not to notice… the kids learned exactly what they saw.

“Kids don’t always inherit kindness. Sometimes, they inherit silence from the adults who should’ve spoken up.”

But here’s the thing:
I kept going.
I kept showing up.
I kept being me — even when the world was unsure how to handle it.

Because deep inside, I had already survived much worse than mockery.
And I knew my worth wasn’t tied to someone else’s comfort.

Chapter 12: Inclusion Isn’t Always Inclusive

Hello

We’re back together again — and I can’t express how much that means to me. I know I made you wait a little for this one, but hey… suspense isn’t always a bad thing, right? It reminds us that we don’t get everything instantly — and maybe that’s what makes the journey meaningful.

So today, I’m taking you into the 6th year of my life — a time that looked like progress on the surface… but underneath, I was discovering a new kind of challenge:
The pain of not being included, even when I was trying my best to fit in.

Let’s start with something close to home.

There were parts of my extended family — people you’d expect to be your first supporters — who made me feel like I didn’t belong.
I was “different.”

I processed things differently. I reacted differently. I wore hearing aids. I spoke with an accent.

And for some… that was too much.

But in that darkness, there were rays of light too.

My maternal aunt and my grandparents were among the few who never let me forget who I was.

They didn’t just “accept” me — they believed in me.
Long before I proved anything to the world, they saw potential. They called me a role model — not because of what I had already done, but because they knew what I could do.

“Sometimes all it takes is one person to believe in you — and that belief can carry you through a thousand rejections.”

Their love became my anchor. Their pride, my motivation.
But outside their circle of warmth… society was a very different story.

Chapter 11: Making Waves – The Boy Who Couldn’t Swim… Did

If you thought learning to speak was the peak of my achievements that year — wait till you hear this:

I learned how to swim. 🏊‍♂️

Now, this wasn’t easy. In fact, it almost didn’t happen.

When my family decided to enroll me in swimming lessons, the response from most coaches was… disappointing, but sadly expected.
They’d say things like:
“We’ve never worked with a deaf child.”
“We don’t know how to communicate with him in the water.”
“It might be risky.”

Every rejection felt like a reminder of what society thought I couldn’t do.

But then… we found one coach.
Just one.
He hesitated — of course he did — but eventually, he said: “Let’s give it a try.”

And that’s all I needed:
A chance.

I still remember my first day in the pool — the uncertainty in his eyes, the curiosity in mine.
The challenge wasn’t just about floating or strokes. It was about trust, communication, and proving to both of us that we could do this.

Session after session, I started improving.
Slowly, awkwardly, with a lot of splashes and near-misses — but I got there.

And then came the moment:
I swam across the pool.
Unaided. Focused. Free.

My coach? He just stood there smiling — speechless.

💭 “People often doubt what you can do until they see you doing it.”

Swimming became more than a skill. It became a symbol.
A reminder that I was not limited by people’s assumptions.
Not defined by my diagnosis.
And certainly not here to fit into anyone’s box.

The truth is — I still had a long way to go.
There were more challenges ahead. Bigger ones.

But for now…
I was floating.
And I wasn’t afraid anymore.

🌟 Chapter 10: From Silent Beginnings to Speaking Freely 🌟

Hello everyone!

If you’re back here after reading my last chapters — you’re exactly where you need to be.
Because this is the year where my story really starts to unfold. And you get to witness it.

This chapter of my life marks something extraordinary:
I was finally speaking fluently.

Yes — the years of speech therapy, daily practice, and determination had brought me to this point. My occupational therapy was reduced, my speech therapy sessions cut back, and for the first time, I wasn’t just learning to talk — I was actually communicating with people around me.

It was also the year I started to interact socially. I could introduce myself, ask questions, share ideas — and people could understand me. That may sound simple to most, but for a child who had once been labeled “non-verbal,” it was a miracle in motion.

💬 I had the nicest teachers, and they never treated me like someone who needed “special” help.
They gave me space to grow like every other child.
And honestly, if someone had seen me as an infant — lying in the NICU, fighting jaundice, hearing doctors say I’d never walk or talk — they would’ve never believed where I stood at that point.

And guess what?
Those same doctors who once said I might not go to school…
…were shocked to see me thriving.

But as much as it felt like I had crossed the hardest part — life had other plans.

💭 “Progress is not the end of struggle. It’s just proof you’re strong enough to face what’s next.”

For now, we celebrated.
Because I had come a long, long way.

NeverGiveUp

🌟 Chapter 9: A Lady, Two Daughters & A New Beginning 🌟
Rejection after rejection. Door after door closed.
But just when we were ready to pause — life handed us a gift.

We found a small Daycare cm Montessori run by a kind woman out of her home. She wasn’t running a large setup. No fancy classrooms. No advertisements. Just a quiet, humble space where she taught only five children at a time.

And one of those five… turned out to be me.

She said yes.
No questions. No hesitation.
She just looked at me and said, “Let’s give him a chance.”

But that wasn’t even the best part.

This woman had two daughters — and together, they created something magical for me.
In the mornings, I attended school with the other children like any normal kid.
But in the evenings, her daughters would sit with me — patiently, gently — to go over anything I had missed or didn’t understand.

They became my unofficial tutors.
My language coaches.
And honestly, my first real friends outside my family.

Day by day, they helped me catch up.
I wasn’t just progressing — I was thriving.

For the first time, people started saying:
“Maybe he’ll make it to a mainstream school after all.”

And by the age of four and a half, I did.

I got accepted into a regular school — not a top-tier one, but one with compassionate staff and a willingness to include a child they had never worked with before.

That school didn’t just give me an education.
It gave me a start. A real shot at life beyond therapy rooms and waiting lists.

💭 “Sometimes, the right people enter your life like quiet heroes — and change your world without ever asking for credit.”

To that woman and her daughters — wherever they are — I owe so much of who I am today.

Because they didn’t just teach me…
They believed in me.

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Chapter 8: Sentences, Struggles & a String of Rejections

Hello fellas!
You’ve been asking about the next part of my journey — so here it is: the fourth year of my life. A year of breakthroughs, and yes… heartbreak too.

If I remember correctly, this was the year I finally began to speak in full, structured sentences. Not just words. Sentences.
For a child with profound hearing loss, this wasn’t just speech — this was a milestone built on years of relentless therapy, endless repetitions, and my mother’s unstoppable hope.

I could now express what I wanted.
I could describe how I felt.
And for the first time, my family could understand me — not by guessing, but by hearing me speak clearly.

It felt like we had crossed the biggest hurdle.
But we were wrong.

Because just as we were celebrating this massive step forward… we were faced with a new challenge: school admission.

It was time for me to be enrolled into a mainstream school, and my mother — with courage in her heart — started knocking on doors. One school after another.

We weren’t aiming for elite institutions. Just average schools. Schools where I could learn, grow, and just be a kid.

But with every meeting, we were met with the same cold line:
“Sorry… we’ve never dealt with a hearing-impaired child before.”

That was it. No willingness to try. No curiosity to understand.
Just fear. Misconception. And rejection.

The doors kept closing.

My mom would return home disappointed, trying to hide her sadness from me.
I may have been small, but I understood.

💭 “Sometimes, society doesn’t need a reason to exclude you. Just the fear of the unknown is enough.”

But we didn’t give up.
Because if there’s one thing my journey has taught me so far — it’s this:
We only need one YES.

And just when hope was thinning out…
We found one.

🌟 Chapter 7: Words That Changed Everything 🌟
There’s a moment in every journey where things start to click — slowly, then suddenly.
For me, that moment was the day my words made sense.

After years of therapy, repetition, and frustration — something finally shifted.
A sound I’d practiced countless times finally came out right.
A word I’d tried again and again was finally understood by someone else.

It may sound simple to most people — but for me and my family, it was everything.

I still remember my mother’s face when I said a full, clear sentence that made complete sense.
She paused. She blinked.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
That single sentence held years of struggle, hope, heartbreak, and perseverance.
It was more than just speech — it was a breakthrough.

The doctors who once said, “He may never speak,” were now surprised by my progress.
Some asked how.
The answer was never magic — it was hard work. Daily practice. Countless hours. And faith.

Finding my voice wasn’t just about talking.
It was about learning that my voice mattered. That even if it came late, even if it came different, it was mine. And I would use it.

💭 “When the world told me I couldn’t speak… I decided I’d tell my story even louder.”

This chapter marks the beginning of a new version of me — not the silent one the world expected, but the speaker, the storyteller, the advocate I was slowly becoming.

And I was just getting started.

🌟 Chapter 6: Therapy Was My Playground 🌟
By the time I turned three, my life looked very different from the kids around me.

While other children were exploring slides and swings in parks, I was spending my days in therapy centers, surrounded by mirrors, flashcards, and speech tools. That was my playground. That’s where I learned to live.

Every week was a full schedule:

🗣️ Speech Therapy – 4 days a week
🧠 Occupational Therapy – 2 days a week
🏡 Home-based Therapy – every day, without fail
Most kids learned to balance through play. I learned to stand without falling with the help of professionals. I had to be trained to sit still, to hold objects the right way, to coordinate my hand and eye movements. These things don’t always come naturally when your world is mostly silent.

To make things even more intense — my speech therapy was designed to help me not just make sounds, but to connect them meaningfully. To hear, mimic, repeat, correct. Repeat again. Over and over.

And I wasn’t doing it alone.

My mother became more than just my parent.
She became my coach, therapist, cheerleader, and advocate.
She enrolled in the John Tracy Clinic, a renowned international program that guided parents of children with hearing loss through home-based methods. We would receive thick packets filled with exercises and learning strategies from the U.S., and she would implement them with care and consistency.

Our home turned into a mini therapy center.
Our routine became sacred.

But not everyone understood. In fact, many people questioned it.
"Why waste time?"
"Therapy won’t make him 'normal'."
"Just accept it and move on."

But my family didn’t buy into the noise. We stuck with what felt right, not what sounded easy.

💭 “Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations.”

That year changed everything. It taught me that progress doesn’t always look like big wins — sometimes, it looks like small steps taken every single day, with faith that they’ll one day lead to something bigger.

And they did.

🌟 Chapter 5: Finding My Voice 🌟
While other kids my age were chatting away and forming fluent sentences, I was just beginning to speak.
My words were unclear. My sentences incomplete. My speech, unintelligible.

But I didn’t let that define me.

With the support of intensive speech therapy and a family that believed in me, I began to build something that doctors once said might not be possible — my voice.

I had to work twice as hard to catch up.
I would repeat words over and over, learning the sound of each one through vibrations, lip movement, and the faint cues my hearing aids allowed.
It wasn’t easy. It was exhausting. But every word I could say was a victory.

And slowly, my speech improved. My vocabulary expanded. My confidence grew.
Not only did I catch up — I began to stand out.

💭 “Your voice matters. Even if it shakes. Even if it’s late to arrive. Use it anyway.”

Today, I speak with clarity. Not just through words — but through this story.
Because what once made me “different”… became my greatest power.

Thank you for walking this journey with me. More chapters coming soon.