Cat Got My Tongue

The irony isn’t lost on me.

I suffer from stress-induced aphasia. Anytime I’m under significant duress, I lose the ability to find words. It’s not life-threatening, per se, but it’s unhelpful when my livelihood depends on my ability to weave words into writing that people will actually engage with.

I first encountered the effects of aphasia during my sophomore year of college. I was being treated for migraines, and the medication I was taking made me forget words, dates, assignments — almost everything necessary to navigate a degree in writing. It was terrifying (and embarrassing) not knowing what I would or wouldn’t remember. I frantically scribbled important details on my hands and arms, trying to remind myself of key data. I got a jarring app on my iPad called MindJogger that would go off in the middle of class, reminding me to take my meds or submit a paper. Having struggled with health issues all my life (mostly migraine-related), I had never felt more disabled than when I lost my cognitive functions.

I was lucky, though. I had understanding professors and a neurologist who advocated for me. I met with the student services office, which assigned someone to me for note-taking and follow-ups. I had access, even when it felt like my brain had left the building.

Accessing our abilities is not something we often think about. Surely everything we’re capable of should be available to us? But our minds and bodies don’t work like that. The effects of toxic stress are well documented; our abilities to do our jobs, to take care of ourselves and others, to simply exist, are influenced by things that are often out of our control.

I eventually switched medications, but after several traumatic events in my 20s, I found myself at a loss for words, again. Only recently have I felt I’ve regained my writing abilities, though that, too, will likely always be a work in progress.

When I experience aphasia, my cognitive abilities don’t just up and disappear. They’re still somewhere inside the grooves of my brain, but they’re harder to reach. It’s like a door has been shut, and I can’t find the right key. I’m pounding on the door, fumbling through a ring of mismatched keys, knowing I can do the thing I need to do — if only this door would open.

Disability rights activists have known this for a while. It’s not about abilities.

It’s about access.

When I write, I write with the desire to make something more accessible. Sometimes it’s a scientific topic, a complex social situation, or even something uncomfortable (like death). But I aim to make it relatable, useful, and engaging. Hopefully, it’s experienced that way, and if not, please let me know.

Which begs the question: how many of us use our abilities to increase access for others? When we innovate, do we innovate for access?

To be honest, I’m writing this post on a half-baked idea, hoping my cognitive faculties will fill in the rest. I don’t have any conclusions here, other than that these are questions I’m sitting with. I invite you to sit with them too.

Ari Mostov is a narrative strategist. She works with innovators to craft irresistible futures. Learn more www.wellplay.world