Esther Klang grew up in Brooklyn, living the kind of ordinary, busy-kid life that doesn’t make headlines. She went to school, played with friends, and probably never gave much thought to the mechanics of breathing or speech. Everything changed just before her 11th birthday when doctors found a tumor lodged in her brain stem. In the space of a few terrifying days, Esther’s childhood was abruptly interrupted, and her family’s world spun off its axis.
Fast forward to today—Esther is 30. She’s lived nearly two decades as a quadriplegic, her world shaped by the aftermath of that tumor. She has vocal cord paralysis, a tracheostomy, and her lungs don’t draw in air the way most people’s do. She’s learned to get by on shallow breaths, each one a reminder that nothing about her life came easy. What she wants to share now isn’t just another story about medical setbacks or the grit it takes to endure them. Instead, Esther pulls back the curtain on something most people take for granted—the ability to communicate.
In her blog post, Esther doesn’t sugarcoat the reality of her situation. She describes how, in hospital after hospital, the priority was always her body—her lungs, her limbs, her survival. Nurses and doctors worked tirelessly to stabilize her physically, but almost no one seemed to notice the other kind of emergency: her silence. Being unable to speak wasn’t just inconvenient or frustrating. It was agony. She was trapped in a body that couldn’t move and a voice that couldn’t speak, forced to watch the world go by while she sat on the sidelines, invisible.
The loneliness was profound. Esther writes about the isolation that comes from being misunderstood—even by the people trying to help her. There’s a particular kind of pain, she says, in being present but unheard, in having ideas and needs and jokes and fears, all bottled up with no way to let them out. People would guess what she wanted, sometimes getting it right but more often missing the mark. She wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, but even that was impossible. The world kept spinning, oblivious.
Then, after months of silence, something miraculous happened: Esther spoke again. The first words were small, tentative, almost unrecognizable as her own, but they were hers. The relief and joy she felt were overwhelming—suddenly, she was back in the conversation, able to assert herself, laugh, and say “no,” “yes,” “I’m scared,” or “thank you.” Communication wasn’t just about sharing information but about reclaiming her humanity.
Esther’s story isn’t just her own. It’s a warning to anyone who thinks communication is optional, a luxury for those in good health. For Esther, and for millions of others who find themselves unable to speak, it’s nothing less than a lifeline. It’s the difference between being seen and being invisible, between hope and despair. She challenges her readers to rethink what it means to be heard, and to remember that for some people, a voice isn’t a given—it’s a fight.
What Esther offers is more than a story of resilience or perseverance, though there’s plenty of both. It’s a call to action, a plea for compassion and awareness, and a reminder that behind every silent mouth is a mind desperate to connect. Her journey is about hard choices, deep loneliness, unexpected joy, and the fundamental human right to be understood. If you’ve ever taken your words for granted, Esther’s account will make you pause—and maybe listen a little harder the next time someone struggles to be heard.
Read my full story: https://ussaac.org/speakup/articles/the-importance-of-communication-a-personal-journey/
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