This
Thursday will be four years since I received hearing aids. These four years
have flown and drudged by. They’ve been easier and harder than I’ve expected.
They’ve been entirely paradoxical. I’ve been fearful, courageous, angry,
resigned, and resilient often in the same day or hour. The reality of a “new
normal” doesn’t hit you all at once—kind of like adjusting to a new
hairstyle—but with lasting implications. Adjusting to life with hearing loss is
a process; in fact, the new normal and its definitions change as you grow.
Today I
still have many of the same emotions—fear, complacence, frustration, to name a
few, but what has changed is their frequency and intensity. I can’t function
without faith and hope. I’ve learned that faith doesn’t mean I don’t have fear;
rather, I’m not ruled by it. Unlike this time four years ago, I don’t have
weeks gripped by grief, fear of the unknown, or aches due to the mental
transition that sensory changes bring. Those times are becoming few and far
between and less debilitating. They often come at night or at times of
mishearing embarrassment; but I don’t approach them with the same perspective.
I guess the
biggest change with the passing of time has been perspective. Yes, the onset of
my loss at 20 years old changed my life, but it didn’t destroy it—it has
enriched it. Four years ago I couldn’t have anticipated the good that comes
from grief; a God-appointed trial. I have so much more patience than I used to
and I’m more of a “glass half full” person than I was. It’s ironic, but I think
the things that initially rock your life actually end up grounding you in the
long run. Those instances, seasons, illnesses, changes, etc. become pillars of
hope; reminding you life does go on. There is hope in the midst of
uncertainty,. You will be encouraged, persevere, and adjust.
If I could
go back to myself four years ago, I would weep again, cry out again, be angry,
be real. In facing our fears, even embracing the reality of them, there is
freedom. I would let myself grieve in light of tremendous grace. I think I’ve
learned so much these four years because, by the grace of God, ive been able to
be real. Like David eloquently demonstrates, there is a peace in stating your
fears and grief—they don’t seem as formidable at the foot of the cross.
To anyone
at the beginning stages of loss of any kind, let yourself be real. There is
hope but it’s okay to grieve, to be angry, to hurt. This season is one of
change and it will rock you but eventually it will root you. It will help you
to see what you really can’t live without, what really matters. Remind yourself
of who Jesus is, what He has done, how He works. Surround yourself with true
friends who can weep with you and rebuke the debilitating despair when you
can’t even see past it. For there to be beauty in brokenness you have to let
yourself break. It’s not weak, it’s wise—wise to trust, to feel, to trust that
tragedy is encompassing but not ultimate. I pray that four years from now you
too will be able to see the good in the grief; not necessarily for what
happened, but from the good that does come. There is hope.
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