When I first learned that plants were medicine, my first thought was, How did I not know this sooner?
A lot of that probably has to do with growing up in Frederick, Maryland—a vast landscape of agricultural crops, where corn, soybeans, and a patchwork of wheat filled the fields. But even more had to do with my inability to access information that was freely circulating on the internet. As a Deaf kid in the nineties, I grew up alongside the boom of the internet. There was information out there—glimpses of herbalism, holistic health, alternative medicine, tending to the land—but much of it wasn’t captioned. Even television, a major source of knowledge and culture, was largely inaccessible. (Spoiler alert: it still is.)
At 24, I decided there was more to the world. More to learn. More to experience. More than the dreary cubicle walls of my first government job in Washington, D.C. So, I set off on a trans-America journey, hopping from one organic farm to another towards an unwritten story waiting to be lived. Along the way, I met incredible mentors, especially Norma, farmers, and fellow travelers, but most importantly, I met the land herself and plants. These unexplainable, magical beings, extensions of Mother Earth herself, born from sunlight, soil, and moisture, quickly became my greatest healers and teachers. As a Deaf wanderer, primarily using ASL, seeking connection within the land-stewarding community, the journey was both beautiful and isolating. Conversations around the farm—stories, compost pile jokes, the wisdom of planting root vegetables by direct sowing, plant songs—often float past me, shared in sound, beyond my reach.
A 2022 study estimated that 2.8% of U.S. adults use sign language, with higher usage among women and younger adults, based on 2010-2018 NHIS data. Out in the world, where communication moves at the speed of sound, being Deaf can feel like living on another planet—separate, distant—when in reality, I’m right here. This feeling is both alienating and full of wonder, a constant dance between mystery and discovery.
When I’m in Mother Nature, there have been more moments than I can count where I’ve thought to myself, There is a language I do not understand. There is a language they do not understand.
Nature is resilient. Flowers bloom from sidewalk cracks, greenery clings to sheer granite cliffs, and a slow trickle of water can eventually lead to a flood. Take a walk through your neighborhood, and you’ll see it everywhere—the delicate balance between resistance and flow. Plants make themselves seen. They always find a way to grow. And if they can’t, they conserve their energy, waiting in their roots until the right time to emerge—when the struggle lessens, when conditions soften.
The Deaf community holds that same resilience, that same ability to endure, adapt, and regrow. As Deaf people, we all know what it’s like to face a world that tries to erase us—doctors and medical professionals who frame deafness as something to be “fixed.” What they don’t always realize is that erasing deafness means erasing sign language, and with it, an entire culture—rich, deep, and full of color. It reminds me of medicinal plants labeled as weeds, like dandelions. People see them as invasive, contaminating pristine lawns with their bright yellow blooms, especially when they reach their shooting-star phase, sending seeds into the wind. But dandelions aren’t invaders—they’re stars among the grass. Deaf people are dandelions, stars among humanity. We bring color, language, and resilience to the world, just as the Earth holds its own language, culture, and endurance.
On my first day of medical herbalism school, the very first thing our teacher said was, “Hello, herbalists.” I barely knew more than how to brew a cup of tea and call turmeric my plant ally. That was it.
My immediate thought was, Wait, what? I’m not even an herbalist yet. But over time, I realized that herbalism doesn’t begin in a classroom—it begins in your kitchen, in your pantry, in the tea you brew. Herbalism is right at your door. You are your own doctor, your own healer, your own medicine person in the choices you make every single day—what you eat, what you put into your body, what you consume. You are your own health advocate. No one else knows what it’s like to sit in your body, to feel what you feel. Trust the constant communication your body is giving you—the subtle signals in the form of pain, tension, emotion, intuition, and more. Practicing herbalism and working with plant medicine are not just acts of healing; they are acts of resistance, of reclaiming independence.
It took me years to fully grasp what my teacher was trying to tell us—that we are our own healers, and herbalism is everyone’s birthright. As a Deaf person, that truth felt even more urgent to reclaim, especially in a world where communication barriers separate Deaf people from vital knowledge, including in healthcare. Deaf people are often left behind, the last to know, neglected in the systems that are meant to serve everyone.
The statistics paint a stark picture—Deaf people are more likely to live in poverty, and poverty is deeply intertwined with illness. The reasons are many: lack of access to healthcare, late diagnoses, communication barriers in medical settings, limited early access to language (many Deaf children don’t acquire sign language early, affecting critical developmental skills and education), limited job and education opportunities, and the weight of stigma and discrimination. Research shows that even when adjusting for factors like education, age, sex, and race, people with hearing loss are still 1.58 times more likely to have a low income and 1.98 times more likely to be unemployed or underemployed compared to hearing individuals.
Reclaiming herbalism as a Deaf person is about more than just plant medicine—it’s about reclaiming autonomy, knowledge, and the right to care for ourselves in a world that too often overlooks us. The systemic barriers we face make it even more essential to reconnect with the wisdom of self-care and natural healing. Herbalism isn’t just about plants; it’s about empowerment, resilience, and remembering that we have always been our own best advocates. By deepening our connection to plant medicine, we reclaim not only our health, but also our independence, our history, and our right to thrive.
Sources:
How Many People Use Sign Language?
The Socioeconomic Impact of Hearing Loss in US Adults
Topics: Herbalism
Michelle Mansfield-Hom is a Deaf Clinical Herbalist, Bach Flower Essence Practitioner, and certified Holistic Nutrition Consultant. She is also part of the team at Rebecca’s Herbal Apothecary & Supply in Boulder, CO, where she serves as an Herbalist, Inventory Manager, and Classes Manager. Michelle offers in-person and virtual educational, herbal workshops and presentations in American Sign Language (ASL), creating inclusive spaces for learning, connection, and healing. She believes vitalist herbal medicine is for everyone—rooted in tradition, accessibility, and community care. When she’s not seeing clients or planning the next nature retreat for the signing community, you’ll find her hiking, crafting magic in the kitchen, tending her medicinal herb garden, chasing powder on her snowboard, or browsing farmers’ markets and cozy local coffee shops. To find out more, visit: bouquetofbasilherbals.com
When I first learned that plants were medicine, my first thought was, How did I not know this sooner?
A lot of that probably has to do with growing up in Frederick, Maryland—a vast landscape of agricultural crops, where corn, soybeans, and a patchwork of wheat filled the fields. But even more had to do with my inability to access information that was freely circulating on the internet. As a Deaf kid in the nineties, I grew up alongside the boom of the internet. There was information out there—glimpses of herbalism, holistic health, alternative medicine, tending to the land—but much of it wasn’t captioned. Even television, a major source of knowledge and culture, was largely inaccessible. (Spoiler alert: it still is.)
At 24, I decided there was more to the world. More to learn. More to experience. More than the dreary cubicle walls of my first government job in Washington, D.C. So, I set off on a trans-America journey, hopping from one organic farm to another towards an unwritten story waiting to be lived. Along the way, I met incredible mentors, especially Norma, farmers, and fellow travelers, but most importantly, I met the land herself and plants. These unexplainable, magical beings, extensions of Mother Earth herself, born from sunlight, soil, and moisture, quickly became my greatest healers and teachers. As a Deaf wanderer, primarily using ASL, seeking connection within the land-stewarding community, the journey was both beautiful and isolating. Conversations around the farm—stories, compost pile jokes, the wisdom of planting root vegetables by direct sowing, plant songs—often float past me, shared in sound, beyond my reach.
A 2022 study estimated that 2.8% of U.S. adults use sign language, with higher usage among women and younger adults, based on 2010-2018 NHIS data. Out in the world, where communication moves at the speed of sound, being Deaf can feel like living on another planet—separate, distant—when in reality, I’m right here. This feeling is both alienating and full of wonder, a constant dance between mystery and discovery.
When I’m in Mother Nature, there have been more moments than I can count where I’ve thought to myself, There is a language I do not understand. There is a language they do not understand.
Nature is resilient. Flowers bloom from sidewalk cracks, greenery clings to sheer granite cliffs, and a slow trickle of water can eventually lead to a flood. Take a walk through your neighborhood, and you’ll see it everywhere—the delicate balance between resistance and flow. Plants make themselves seen. They always find a way to grow. And if they can’t, they conserve their energy, waiting in their roots until the right time to emerge—when the struggle lessens, when conditions soften.
The Deaf community holds that same resilience, that same ability to endure, adapt, and regrow. As Deaf people, we all know what it’s like to face a world that tries to erase us—doctors and medical professionals who frame deafness as something to be “fixed.” What they don’t always realize is that erasing deafness means erasing sign language, and with it, an entire culture—rich, deep, and full of color. It reminds me of medicinal plants labeled as weeds, like dandelions. People see them as invasive, contaminating pristine lawns with their bright yellow blooms, especially when they reach their shooting-star phase, sending seeds into the wind. But dandelions aren’t invaders—they’re stars among the grass. Deaf people are dandelions, stars among humanity. We bring color, language, and resilience to the world, just as the Earth holds its own language, culture, and endurance.
On my first day of medical herbalism school, the very first thing our teacher said was, “Hello, herbalists.” I barely knew more than how to brew a cup of tea and call turmeric my plant ally. That was it.
My immediate thought was, Wait, what? I’m not even an herbalist yet. But over time, I realized that herbalism doesn’t begin in a classroom—it begins in your kitchen, in your pantry, in the tea you brew. Herbalism is right at your door. You are your own doctor, your own healer, your own medicine person in the choices you make every single day—what you eat, what you put into your body, what you consume. You are your own health advocate. No one else knows what it’s like to sit in your body, to feel what you feel. Trust the constant communication your body is giving you—the subtle signals in the form of pain, tension, emotion, intuition, and more. Practicing herbalism and working with plant medicine are not just acts of healing; they are acts of resistance, of reclaiming independence.
It took me years to fully grasp what my teacher was trying to tell us—that we are our own healers, and herbalism is everyone’s birthright. As a Deaf person, that truth felt even more urgent to reclaim, especially in a world where communication barriers separate Deaf people from vital knowledge, including in healthcare. Deaf people are often left behind, the last to know, neglected in the systems that are meant to serve everyone.
The statistics paint a stark picture—Deaf people are more likely to live in poverty, and poverty is deeply intertwined with illness. The reasons are many: lack of access to healthcare, late diagnoses, communication barriers in medical settings, limited early access to language (many Deaf children don’t acquire sign language early, affecting critical developmental skills and education), limited job and education opportunities, and the weight of stigma and discrimination. Research shows that even when adjusting for factors like education, age, sex, and race, people with hearing loss are still 1.58 times more likely to have a low income and 1.98 times more likely to be unemployed or underemployed compared to hearing individuals.
Reclaiming herbalism as a Deaf person is about more than just plant medicine—it’s about reclaiming autonomy, knowledge, and the right to care for ourselves in a world that too often overlooks us. The systemic barriers we face make it even more essential to reconnect with the wisdom of self-care and natural healing. Herbalism isn’t just about plants; it’s about empowerment, resilience, and remembering that we have always been our own best advocates. By deepening our connection to plant medicine, we reclaim not only our health, but also our independence, our history, and our right to thrive.
Sources:
How Many People Use Sign Language?
The Socioeconomic Impact of Hearing Loss in US Adults
Topics: Herbalism
Michelle Mansfield-Hom is a Deaf Clinical Herbalist, Bach Flower Essence Practitioner, and certified Holistic Nutrition Consultant. She is also part of the team at Rebecca’s Herbal Apothecary & Supply in Boulder, CO, where she serves as an Herbalist, Inventory Manager, and Classes Manager. Michelle offers in-person and virtual educational, herbal workshops and presentations in American Sign Language (ASL), creating inclusive spaces for learning, connection, and healing. She believes vitalist herbal medicine is for everyone—rooted in tradition, accessibility, and community care. When she’s not seeing clients or planning the next nature retreat for the signing community, you’ll find her hiking, crafting magic in the kitchen, tending her medicinal herb garden, chasing powder on her snowboard, or browsing farmers’ markets and cozy local coffee shops. To find out more, visit: bouquetofbasilherbals.com
