I was a shy intern running errands and making copies when I spotted him: an older man standing alone, clearly frustrated as people rushed past without a second glance. When I realized he was deaf and trying to communicate, I approached and signed, “Hello, can I assist you?” Little did I know, the company’s CEO was watching from the mezzanine.
Six months ago, I was practically invisible at Meridian Communications. At 22, I was a junior marketing intern, blending into one of Chicago’s top advertising firms by making copies and avoiding attention. I ate lunch alone at my desk and took the stairs to dodge small talk. This internship was supposed to be a fresh start but had become another place where I felt overlooked.
The one thing that gave me purpose was my younger brother, Danny. He was eight and deaf from birth. While our parents struggled with sign language, I dove into learning it passionately. By the time I started at Meridian, I was fluent in ASL—a skill I was proud of but thought irrelevant in the corporate world, like playing violin in a rock band.
That Tuesday morning began like any other, with the building buzzing and everyone stressed preparing for a major presentation. At reception, I noticed the man—a well-dressed older gentleman with a mix of frustration and sadness in his eyes.
He was trying to communicate with Jessica, our receptionist, who was politely but firmly telling him she couldn’t understand without a name or appointment.
He signed silently, and I immediately recognized the signs. He was trying to communicate in ASL.
Jessica turned away to help someone else, effectively dismissing him. He stood there looking lost, as busy employees passed without noticing.
Though I was just an intern and supposed to focus on the presentation prep, I thought of Danny—the way people often ignored him because of his deafness. I decided to step in.
I approached the man, heart racing, and signed, “Hello, I’m Catherine. How can I help you?”
His expression shifted instantly from frustration to relief. “You sign?” he signed back, smiling. “Thank goodness. I thought no one here could understand me.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had trouble,” I signed. “Who are you here to see?”
He paused, pride and hesitation on his face. “Michael Hartwell,” he signed.
My heart nearly stopped. Michael Hartwell—the CEO, whose rare visits made the whole office buzz.
I tried contacting his assistant, but Michael was tied up in meetings. Seeing the disappointment in the man’s eyes, I took a risk and offered to show him around.
As we toured the building, I translated conversations and saw the man’s face light up with pride. It was then I noticed Michael Hartwell himself watching from the mezzanine, partially hidden. My heart raced—was I about to be fired?
Later, as we returned to the lobby, my supervisor Margaret approached, clearly upset.
But behind her came Michael Hartwell.
He surprised everyone by defending me and acknowledging how well I’d helped his father.
The CEO apologized for how his father had been treated in the past and revealed he’d been trying to learn ASL to connect with him.
He then offered me a job—creating a new role focused on accessibility and inclusion, reporting directly to him.
What started as a simple act of kindness turned into a life-changing opportunity. Over six months, I helped transform the company culture, making Meridian Communications a leader in workplace inclusion.
That shy intern who once felt invisible had found her voice by helping others be heard. And it all began with a simple signed greeting to a lonely man in the lobby.
