The Stories I Hold
Lately, as I’ve been sprucing up my website, getting ready to launch a new chapter book series, and tackling some challenging interpreting assignments, I’ve found myself reflecting on the stories and experiences that have shaped my journey. These milestones have me thinking more deeply about the twists, turns, and lessons along the way.
For over 30 years, I’ve been an American Sign Language interpreter, stepping into rooms where stories unfold—some beautiful, some heartbreaking, and some so profoundly human that they leave a lasting imprint on my heart. As an interpreter, I’m entrusted with these stories, but the catch is they’re not mine to tell. I can’t talk about specifics, I can’t share the names, faces, or details that bring them to life. But I hold them all, tucked away in the corners of my mind and heart, like a carefully guarded collection of moments that define us.
It’s a strange place to live—being there, fully present, but invisible. I’m part of the most intimate and transformative moments in someone else’s life, yet I don’t get to speak my own thoughts, offer my opinions, or share how it feels. I just hold the space for them, my hands telling their stories, while my mind processes the weight of it all. It’s like being the fly on the wall, hearing everything, but never truly part of the conversation.
After three decades of holding these stories, I’ve started to ask myself: What do I do with them?
In many ways, I’ve come to see myself as a steward of these stories—neither the originator nor the owner, but someone entrusted with their safekeeping. The Deaf community, like any marginalized group, has endured so much: joy, struggle, triumph, and trauma. I’ve been there for the courtroom explanations, for the classrooms where children were learning to communicate for the first time, for the hospital rooms where life-changing news was delivered. These stories pass through me, not to be claimed, but to be honored. And they’ve left their mark on me.
But I’ve also learned that holding these stories doesn’t mean being consumed by them. In fact, one of the reasons I’ve been able to stay in this profession for so long is that Empathy isn’t my strongest trait. And for me, that’s been a blessing. I care deeply about the people I work with, but I’ve also learned how to separate myself from the emotional weight of their stories. I witness them. I hold them. But I don’t let them crush me.
In a profession where burnout is common, it’s been essential for me to develop this balance. I’m not numb to the pain or the joy in the room, but I’m able to protect my own mental health by keeping a respectful distance from it. I’ve had to, because being consumed by every story would be destructive, not just to me, but to my ability to help others.
The ethical code of my profession means I can’t talk about the specifics. But the emotional weight of those moments stay with me. I’ve been there for the joyous moments—babies being born, graduations, celebrations—and the devastating ones. I’ve interpreted for people in courtrooms, hospitals, workplaces—places where their future, their dignity, their very lives were being shaped by a room full of people who didn’t share their language or their experience.
It’s a weighty thing to witness the trauma of others, knowing that I can’t do anything about it. I can’t speak up for them or change the outcome. I can only interpret, and in doing so, I walk a fine line between being too hearing and not Deaf enough. I see things through the eyes of the Deaf community, but I’ll never fully live those experiences myself. It’s like carrying someone else’s sorrow—close enough to feel it, but never truly owning it.
And so, the stories stay. I can’t share them, but I also can’t forget them. I’ve come to realize that’s okay. They aren’t mine to process or resolve; they’re moments I’ve been invited into, to bear witness, and then step back. And maybe that’s what I do with them. I hold them, I learn from them, and I move on, knowing that my job isn’t to carry the weight forever, but to honor it while I’m there.
There’s no neat ending here, no big conclusion. Just the quiet acknowledgment that, after 30 years, the stories I hold have shaped me as much as I’ve shaped them. I’ll keep holding them, and maybe that’s enough.
Kelly Brakenhoff is the author of 15 books and a seasoned ASL interpreter. She splits her writing energy between two series: cozy mysteries set on a college campus and children’s books featuring Duke the Deaf Dog.
Parents, kids, and teachers love the children’s books and activity guides because they introduce ASL and the Deaf community through fun, engaging stories. And if you enjoy a smart female sleuth, want to learn more about Deaf culture, or have ever lived in a place where livestock outnumber people, the Cassandra Sato Mystery series will have you connecting the dots faster than a group project coming together the night before it’s due.
A proud mom to four adults, head of the dog-snuggling department, and grandma to a growing brood of perfectly behaved grandkids, Kelly and her husband call Nebraska home.