I’ll never forget sitting in that doctor’s chair, my head spinning as I strained to hear the kind man in the blindingly white coat speak the words that changed my life forever—you have degenerative hearing loss. Those words changed everything. It was a pivotal moment in my life that was the end of the beginning. It was the end of a relatively “care-free” life, the end of feeling normal, facing rainy days and swimming outings without anxiety. The end of throwing my hair in a ponytail without a thought, of noticing how quiet my world is when I sleep without aids, the end of life as I knew it.
Oh, but that day was also the beginning…
It was the day I began to understand that life is frail, fleeting, that my body will fail. It was the beginning of accepting disability as a part of me not something that dis-ables me from life. It was the beginning of asking for help, of being an advocate for myself. It was the beginning of a new normal—one that has ended up a lot less scary than I imagined.
That Thursday afternoon I thought a lot of my life was ending—would I have to leave Trinity Western to afford the hearing aids I would need? Would I be able to keep studying psychology—how practical is that when I wouldn’t be able to hear my clients? Who would want to date, much less marry me now—now that I for sure have less and no one seemed to want me before? Where can I go from here? What about my dreams?
But what I’ve come to realize over the last six years is that the afternoon diagnosis wasn’t when my dreams died—it was when they were refined. I still studied psychology and two years later graduated with an honors degree. I may have dropped the Spanish minor, but I ended up with a Human Services certificate—which was the primary way the path from psychologist turned to behavior analysis—and working with children with disabilities. At the time it sure felt like the end of the world—but so many beginnings start that way. The dead leaf is pushed off to make room for the bud.
Tonight, in the midst of my second quarter of graduate school—with 6 year anniversary of hearing aids falling on Super bowl Sunday (Go Hawks!)—I read this story and was reminded of and prompted to write about my own. What felt like the end my dream of helping others by listening was actually the beginning of discovering my passion and my mission. My dull ears allowed me to hear so many things—the encouragement of others, the reality of disability and the ability to thrive within it, and the voice of my Father who calls me and comforts me in the midst of storms and strife.
My hearing loss may have ended life as I knew it—but the life I love now was actually made possible through it—I’m not puking rainbows and saying life is easy and beautiful with hearing loss—it’s often scary and difficult—but a life worth living is one that has valleys and mountains. I love that I can relate to the families I work with, that I can “turn my ears off” to annoying sounds, that I can sleep like a rock. So, what seems like the end can actually be the start of a beautiful beginning.
