Ten Years Out- Reflections on Hearing Loss- Updates from year 14

I wrote the following post 4 years ago. Tomorrow is year 14. This post has been my most read, by far, on this blog. As I re-read this today- from the lens of world-wide upheaval of 2020/2021- I was grateful for the reminder that just because we can’t see past our current circumstances, doesn’t mean that they wont pass. There will be perspective, hope, healing, and joy. Not just on the other side of whatever trouble you’re facing, but even in the MIDST of it. When you pause to breathe, receive help and encouragement from family and friends. Also, for anyone whose suffering is fresh--I know the ache is real, the grief IS overwhelming, and your feelings of loss/anger/fear, have their place in your circumstances right now. I wrote these words a decade later. But initially, there were many tear-filled days.Please take what you need from this post, or don't read it at all if it's not what you need today. Feel free to reach out in you need an empathetic ear. I know all too well how much it can add to your hurt to have well-meaning friends try to "help you see the bright side" when your world has gone dark. So, may my words from 4 years ago encourage you today.

 

Ten years ago today, after my mother gently dragged me to a local ENT doctor, my life changed when he told me I had bilateral degenerative hearing loss. I was terrified, in shock, unbelieving-not me, disabled? At 20?!  who will love me now? How can I finish college? What will my life look like now?—ran through my mind as the kind, yet ignorant-of-my-situation nurse who took my blood test told me “not to cry, it’s just a shot”, if only she knew.

But now, a decade later, I can’t help but reflect on how many of those questions and fears have drifted away—I finished college and went back. Disability in one area doesn’t mean you don’t have strong abilities in others. We are each more than a single label or diagnosis.

 

If I could go back, I would tell my twenty-year-old-self—I know you can’t see past this now. It seems to mar your life, to irrevocably screw up your plans, your dreams.  It seems to shatter every truth you knew about who you are and what you’re capable of. Later that afternoon, as you sit on the beach, pen in hand, pages rippling in the forceful wind—you will make a pivotal choice—to turn to, not away from Jesus in this day of pain and fear. You chose not to get bitter, cynical, or self-pitying—and by His grace you live that out. Sure, you have moments of agony and deep fear—but your roots are strong—to him be the glory.

 

Ten years from now you will be thankful for this day—you won’t wish it away, dread waking up and putting your aids in, live in constant fear of losing the rest of your hearing or not having batteries for your aids. You won’t hide your aids under your hair—you’ll again experience the freedom of wearing your hair up—exposing those ears, knowing that the people who can’t see past them don’t deserve your energy anyway. Ten years out, you will be so grateful for loss—for you have gained so much-perspective, empathy, compassion for the hurting—that far outweighs any loss of your physical hearing. You’ll smile to think how this was made for you—chosen in love to strengthen, EQUIP—not hinder, the life you live. Your eyes will glimmer as your mind fills with pictures of how this loss is gain—from relating to many scared parents with a fresh Autism diagnosis, to the way your niece gently pulls back your hair and in awe and joy exclaims “you got my ears too!”

 

 

Ten years from now you will read scriptures like “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him” (Psalm 126) and your heart will smile with an understanding and joy—fulfilling this verse and knowing its truth. Ten years from now, the once overwhelmingly painful anniversary will have faded to one of bittersweet gratitude—for now you have those sheaves—the harvest of suffering that reminds you pain in this life is birth pains. Trembling 20-year-old-self—this diagnosis you think is ending your life—is actually the greatest beginning.

beholding love 2021-reflections

 

Beholding love- like every theme year, has looked different than I anticipated. It has actually been more about beholding the love from God, myself, and family and friends. It’s been about receiving help, not defining myself or my place by being the one giving it. As I reflect, I’m astounded by the generosity of my parents, family, and friends this year. I have been mostly unemployed- half the year. The first half by choice- taking time to write my book, do intensive early EMDR counseling for trauma, and continuing 2020’s theme of “abundant rest”. The latter part of this year due to mandates and a shift from special education and direct client-care to focusing on writing/project managment/content creation.  It’s weird to be “starting over” career wise, but with experience and technical/content writing experience specific to Behavior Analysis and Special Education/curriculum. It’s been awhile since I’ve been a beginner, and the applying to jobs is draining. Thankfully I have a  wonderful part time job writing content for social media through a friend I met years ago! I’m hopeful for what is to come.

 

I’d be dishonest if I didn’t admit I had hoped it would mean romance too. Something I have longed for. Aside from a few dates, I’ve been mostly single this year. But, I also believe that this year has been one of healing and preparation. I’m grateful for the space to look at my relationship patterns, my attachment style, and to heal from old wounds, remove old ways of seeing and approaching intimacy. And hey, there’s still 2 weeks left, haha!

I was able to travel the later part of the year too; and was such a gift and an opportunity to receive and to be cared for—to behold love in tangible ways. In mid-October I was able to spend time with my grandpa, aunt, and cousins in Iowa as well as to see my aunts and cousins in Minnesota. I was able to relate to and connect with family in ways I think I had been more closed off to in the past, and it was encouraging and life-giving.

Similarly, I travelled to Boise, Idaho the end of October; and then Fort Worth, Texas the first week in December. In bot of those trips I was refreshed and encouraged to be in new cities and surrounded by old friends. Beholding love looked like accepting the generosity of paid-for meals, car loans, and hospitality. I was revived by the laughter, encouraging chats, and the change of scenery-and the hope for putting roots in one of those places soon!

Beholding love looked a lot like receiving this year. To have open hands and an expectant heart that my past was not going to repeat itself. To assume the best of myself and others. To believe that healing is possible, to lean into the sore areas of my soul and story, and to turn the light on in the shadows of trauma memories. Most recently, it looked like embracing that safety and rest IS here. That beholding means I don’t have to always be alert or figuring things out. Beholding love was exemplified last week when, after a counseling session, I was able to really rest the next day. To have freedom from the life-long pressure to “figure things out” and to just be. To let go of trying to control or to figure out my next steps—most likely moving out of state, focusing more on writing.

Beholding love looked like leaps of faith, trusting my gut, going out on a limb with bravery and prayer. It looked like preaching to myself-reminders of who God is, what He has promised, and trusting him to “hem me in, before and behind”. It looked like bravely sharing of my heart- self-publishing my first book, asking for help-financially and practically. I beheld love when faced with decisions by looking at what I would regret the most—the wondering if I didn’t take the risk or the possible outcomes. This was a big part of the trips I took, making time to paint and draw with my non-dominant hand (I’ve always been sort-of ambidextrous); and reaching out to people-like asking for help, giving a copy of my book to: Joanna and Chip Gaines’ son, chatting with Harry Connick Jr. on Instagram, dying my hair pink, and applying for jobs out of state and in new fields.

Beholding love has meant receiving-beholding what *IS* already present around me-the love of God, my family and Friends, and the many daily blessings. I guess you could say, I beheld love.