Not Plugged In: My Voice, My Story

Sometimes I get to have a Charlie Kirk moment, standing in front of a group of college students, ready for whatever tough questions they want to throw my way. You know the type, the ones who’ve taken two disability studies classes and suddenly think they’ve cracked the code on my entire existence. They’ll raise their hand and say, “So… how has your AAC device shaped who you are as a person?” And I just smile sweetly and think, Bless your heart, you’re about to learn today.

The truth is, I love that moment. I love debating, challenging people’s assumptions, and watching their eyes widen when they realize disability isn’t something to be pitied or romanticized, it’s just life. Those conversations light me up because they push people to see me, not just my technology. I’ve got a quick wit, a strong mind, and enough sass to hold my own in any debate, device or not.

I love it when college students ask deep questions about my AAC. It's cute, but sweetie, my growth came from living, not charging

Because here’s the thing: my AAC device didn’t shape who I am. It didn’t raise me, teach me, or mold my personality. It’s a tool, not a teacher. The only thing it’s ever shaped is my patience when autocorrect decides to fight me mid-sentence.

October is AAC Awareness Month, which means my feed is about to fill up with videos of speech devices talking like Siri on a caffeine rush. Don’t get me wrong, I love awareness. I’ll always cheer for anything that helps people understand communication access. But let’s get one thing straight right off the bat: my AAC device didn’t give me a voice. It just helps y’all hear the one I’ve had all along.

Before I ever touched a screen, I had a whole lot to say. I may not have been able to blurt it out like everyone else, but I was thinking, feeling, laughing, and side-eyeing since day one. I can remember sitting at the dinner table, watching adults argue over who forgot to buy milk again, thinking, “Y’all seriously gonna make this a federal case over 2 percent?” I had opinions, humor, and sass before anyone ever plugged me in. Quiet never meant empty. It just meant y’all couldn’t hear the commentary running in my head.

When I finally got my first speech device, people acted like I’d just discovered fire. “Oh my gosh, she can talk!” they said, like I hadn’t been mentally talking back for years. They saw a miracle. I felt relief. The world finally caught a glimpse of what I’d been trying to say this whole time. My AAC didn’t create my personality. It didn’t build my compassion, my stubborn streak, or my sarcasm. All that was already there. The device just gave it a louder microphone.

And don’t get me wrong, I love my AAC. It’s a game-changer. But it’s also a little dramatic. Sometimes it freezes mid-sentence, like it’s taking a nap. Sometimes it speaks when I’m not ready, and sometimes it says a word completely wrong, and I’m left trying to act like I meant to sound British. And when that battery dies in public? Oh,

honey, that’s a full-blown crisis. Everyone’s staring like I’m rebooting when really it’s just my poor device giving up after a long day. My emotions don’t have a charger. My thoughts don’t have an off switch. My sense of humor runs 24/7, whether my screen is lit or not.

AAC is a tool, just like glasses help you see, my device helps me speak. Nobody says your glasses gave you sight. They just make things clearer. Same here. I’ve always had thoughts, dreams, prayers, and plenty of hot takes about life and the people in it. The device just helps me share them without others having to guess.

And here’s what a lot of people overlook: my AAC didn’t help me grow as a person. I did that myself. My growth came from living, learning, laughing, failing, and showing up anyway. It came from experience, faith, friends, and stubborn determination. The device didn’t teach me empathy, confidence, or grit. It just made it easier for you to see it. That’s why it’s so important to see the person, not the device. Because the person, the one with the dreams, jokes, bad days, and big ideas, is a person with or without AAC. I don’t need technology to make me valuable. I already was.

The funny part is that people still talk about my AAC like it’s the main character. “Wow, that thing is amazing!” they’ll say. And I think, well, thank you, but the girl operating it isn’t too bad either. The device doesn’t decide what I say. It doesn’t plan my advocacy speeches or write these blogs. It doesn’t stay up at midnight, helping me find the perfect sassy line to make a point. That’s all me, fingers flying, brain spinning, heart leading. The device is just the delivery system.

Sometimes folks tell me, “Your device brings you to life.” And I have to stop myself from saying, “Bless your heart, I was already alive. You’re just now listening.” I cry at movies, laugh until my side hurts, and yell at football games like everybody else. My AAC doesn’t know my favorite songs, my fears, or how it feels when I nail a big presentation or connect with another advocate. It doesn’t have personality. I do.

That’s what people miss. AAC isn’t about fixing anyone; it’s about connection. It bridges the gap between what I’m thinking and what you finally get to hear. It doesn’t make me more human. It simply reminds everyone else that I already was. My voice has always existed, full of jokes, opinions, and heart. It just needed a clearer path to travel.

So no, my AAC isn’t part of me. It’s part of my process. It doesn’t define who I am any more than a phone defines who’s texting. It follows my lead, one word at a time. I’m not made of wires and buttons. I’m made of grit, humor, faith, and the belief that no matter how I speak, my words matter.

I’m Leslie Kate, the girl who types too fast, laughs too loud, and refuses to shrink into silence. The woman with something to say and a million ways to say it. The human who’s been fully alive long before a voice came through a speaker. My AAC is powerful, but I’m the power source.

MY VOICE isn’t plugged in. It comes from me, heart, humor, and all. 💬💙✨