My freshman year of college, out on my own and in charge of my health for the first time, I didn’t realize you had to take an allergy pill every day for it to be effective. As a result, I had the worst allergy season of my life. Sometime that spring, amidst pollen-related sinus issues and the miscellaneous other effects of living in a dorm, I stopped hearing well out of my left ear. I chalked it up to congestion, sinus pressure, the spring concert—never stopping to think about what it could mean in the long term. I thought it was temporary or one-time damage, and so I didn’t spend any more time or energy concerning myself with my hearing (or lack thereof).
I’ve never been able to hear properly out of my left ear again.
Over the years, small moments like this piled up. My expensive in-ear headphones didn’t cut it, even when cranked up as high as they would go. My ENT chalked it up to a chronic inflammatory condition I’d already been diagnosed with. When waiting tables, I’d have to ask guests to repeat their orders. Restaurants are loud, you know?
I thought my partner was mumbling all the time—annoying but normal. In retrospect, it’s easy to understand the old adage about boiling a frog; how you don’t notice the water is dangerous until it’s too late.
When I noticed the water was boiling, it was because the pandemic had hit. Everyone started wearing masks. Without even noticing, I’d come to rely on reading lips to supplement what I wasn’t able to hear. It only hit me when it was no longer an option.
There’s one moment that really sticks out: when I walked up to the counter at a coffee shop, and I assumed the barista, who was wearing a mask, was busy or hadn’t noticed me yet because I hadn’t heard them say “what can I get for you?” We stood and stared at each other for several minutes before I realized what was going on.
My hearing loss is hereditary, not caused by an illness or a fondness for loud music. My great-grandfather wore hearing aids for most of his life, something I’d thought of as more a product of his age than anything else. When my audiologist asked about family history, though, I flashed back to NFL games with the subtitles on, and my great-grandfather turning his hearing aids down when the house full of grandchildren got too loud.
This distinction is important—an estimated 20% of the population worldwide will experience some level of hearing loss in their lives. In most cases, a single incident causes the damage. Hereditary, or degenerative, hearing loss is different. The sense continues to dull over a period of months, years, or decades.
Because I left my own hearing loss untreated for so long, my brain experienced what’s called “neuroplasticity,” where it re-assigned now-unused hearing pathways to other senses or activities. This means that my hearing aids, while absolutely helpful and important, are overwhelming after a few hours. I spent much of my first months after getting them exhausted from suddenly having to re-re-wire those pathways back to hearing.
People with disabilities—whether debilitating, manageable, or otherwise —fight a constant battle against shame. The world is not built for anything outside of “normal,” which means, intentionally or not, those who fall into that category are othered just by existing in public spaces. Once, I sobbed to my mom on the phone after a yoga class where I couldn’t hear the instructor well enough to follow along. Masks with windows for lip reading were a cute novelty and weren’t used by the general public. Sometimes, in restaurants or other crowded places, because I’m unable to pick up on every part of a conversation, I’m forced to tune out. I miss out on connections and chatter.
Despite all of this, I am lucky: I can afford hearing aids, I have largely adapted my communication styles and living environment to my needs, and the ability to work from home has made connecting with colleagues much easier than it otherwise would be. I don’t have to wear hearing aids when taking meetings on my computer, which saves me from daily processing exhaustion. The water, once boiling, is back to a manageable simmer.
Because of my disability, I spend a lot of time thinking about how others move through the world. I encourage you to do the same, not just for Global Accessibility Awareness Day, but as often as you can manage. This includes taking a look at how you yourself move through the world—your daily struggles, no matter how small, and what makes your life easier— to make sure you’re extending the same courtesy to those around you.