May is Mental Health Awareness Month, which means the internet is currently full of therapy speak, burnout posts, nervous system regulation reels, “protect your peace” carousels, and at least one person explaining attachment styles using Taylor Swift lyrics or Devil wears Prada.
Meanwhile, AAC users are still often expected to emotionally communicate with: happy, sad, and angry.
Cool.
And to be fair, AAC has had bigger battles to fight. For decades, the focus has rightly been on giving people access to communication itself: Requesting, participating, learning, building language, being included, being heard.
That work matters. It changed lives.
But maybe it’s time to ask a slightly messier question: What happens when someone can ask for cookies, but cannot say:
- “I’m overwhelmed.”
- “Everyone is perceiving me too loudly today.”
- “I need space.”
- “Please stop talking for me.”
- “I don’t know how to explain what’s wrong.”
- “I’m trying.”
Because mental health is deeply connected to language. Not in an inspirational quote way. In a very real way.
Mental health needs language (more than we admit)
Most modern therapy models depend heavily on vocabulary. CBT asks people to identify thoughts and patterns. DBT leans on emotional awareness and regulation. Trauma-informed care often centers around safety, consent, boundaries, and naming internal experiences.
Even emotional regulation itself relies on language more than we realize.
A person saying “I need a break” usually lands very differently from a full nervous-system crash fifteen minutes later. And yet emotional vocabulary in AAC is often treated like a side quest:
A tiny folder.
Three emotions.
Maybe a breathing icon if everyone’s feeling ambitious.
Meanwhile, the actual emotional lives of AAC users are far more layered.
Especially for AAC users navigating, masking, sensory overload, burnout, social exhaustion, infantilization, communication fatigue, dependency dynamics, being spoken about instead of spoken with.
That last one matters more than people think. Because communication access is not only about participation.
It is also about agency.
The ability to say:
- “Don’t speak for me.”
- “I want to answer myself.”
- “Please stop.”
- “I need quiet.”
- “I am not a baby.”
Those are not “advanced social skills.” That is dignity vocabulary.
The inner world gap
One thing we kept circling back to while building vocabulary inside Avaz was this:
What kind of voice are AAC systems actually helping people build?
Because if AAC only supports requesting, routines, compliance, basic social responses, and externally visible needs, then entire parts of a person’s inner world stay inaccessible. And honestly, emotional wellbeing lives in those inaccessible spaces, not just in happy/sad/angry.
A lot of AAC systems were designed around helping people communicate to the world. But emotional health also depends on being able to communicate about yourself to yourself. That’s where things get interesting. Because language shapes internal experience too.
The ability to say “I’m overwhelmed” instead of only experiencing overwhelm physically can change how someone navigates a moment.
The ability to say “I need a movement break” can prevent escalation entirely.
The ability to say “I deserve to talk too” can shape self-worth over time.
That is not “extra vocabulary.” That is psychological infrastructure.
Emotional vocabulary grows with people
A five-year-old learning to say “too loud” does not need the same emotional vocabulary as a teenager navigating masking, social exclusion, identity, relationships, or burnout.
But AAC systems can sometimes unintentionally freeze emotional language at a very young developmental stage.
Which creates another uncomfortable question:
Do AAC users grow emotionally inside our systems the same way they grow cognitively and socially outside them?
Because the rest of the world has moved into conversations around:
- boundaries,
- consent,
- neurodiversity,
- emotional regulation,
- self-advocacy,
- mental wellness,
- sensory needs.
AAC should probably be part of that conversation too.
So what are we missing?
No, this is not about turning AAC apps into therapy apps. That’s not the point, the point is much simpler.
If communication is a human right, emotional communication should not be optional.
Especially for people who already spend so much of their lives navigating systems that misunderstand them.
So maybe this Mental Health Awareness Month, the AAC field needs to ask harder questions.
Not just:
“Can this person communicate?”
But:
Can they set boundaries?
Can they describe sensory overwhelm?
Can they express emotional nuance?
Can they advocate for themselves?
Can they talk about burnout?
Can they say:
“I don’t want to talk about it right now”?
Can they build language for their inner world?
Because maybe the future of AAC is not only about helping people ask for things. Maybe it is also about helping people exist more fully as themselves.
Author: Lakshmignanabala Akilan
Lakshmi is a Senior Product Marketing Manager at Avaz, where she focuses on understanding what enables communication success in the real world. By working closely with AAC users, families, and professionals, she translates human insights into clear product positioning, messaging, and go-to-market strategies, ensuring that assistive technology is not just built well, but adopted meaningfully.
