My 3 a.m. moment, the one that keeps me up at night, consists of my hairdresser sobbing, an awkward embrace, hesitation, and utter disbelief. Never, until that moment, had anyone reacted so strongly to me talking about my deafness. As she told me how brave I was for living with such a “challenge,” despite my use of cochlear implants starting when I was 8 months old, I realized how different my understanding of silence was from the rest of the world. To most, deafness is seen as a disability. But to me, deafness is home. Silence is home. And it has shown me how the most meaningful moments worth paying attention to don’t need a voice.
When I was younger, before I realized the freedom that exists between silence and sound, I used to flinch at thunder. But as I learned to experiment with sound, I began choosing when and where I wanted to hear. One day, when I was 8, I chose to take my “ears” off and simply watch the lightning flash. From then on, I carried that sense of choice into every interaction with nature, even the smallest moments, like watching trees sway in silence. My deafness opened a path of exploration unavailable to others. Knowing what thunder and wind sound like, yet choosing to experience them in a world where they do not make a noise, allows me to become a silent observer. Silence lets me form my own path, experiencing nature exactly as I see it.
As I grew older and got my license, my favorite part of driving has remained consistent: the silent, universal wave of thanks. Every morning, I watch cars struggle to find an opening to merge into traffic on my way to school. As a personal rule, I always let them in. The result: a mute wave of gratitude that stands out among congested cars and simmering tempers. A quick moment understood between two strangers, and not a word spoken. While fury and anger are shared between honking horns and shouts through windows, comradery and care need no sound. Living in silence more than most, I have come to value the quiet kind of love that exists in small, silent notions, rather than loud love in public declarations. That motion of thanks, whether the recipient or giver, never fails to put a smile on my face, reminding me that despite all the noise, humanity lives in silence.
When I first got cochlear’s, my parents enrolled me in a school for the oral deaf. As I grew older, I stayed connected to my deaf identity as a counselor at “deaf camp”, a place where families of students could ask older alumni questions. The first time I attended, I waited for a bombardment of questions from parents, instead I was greeted by young kids eager to play. Aside from the occasional conversation with parents, the entire “purpose” of the camp was never addressed. No one pointed out the shared deafness, nor was anyone surprised when a stray cochlear was left behind. The silence we shared wasn’t discussed, but it was always present, understood without explanation. Despite the yelling and laughter, what united us never had to be said aloud. It simply existed and in turn, was understood unanimously.
As loud as life can get, having a silent haven to return to keeps me grounded and appreciative of the smaller, important pieces of life. My deafness is not, and never has been something to overcome, but something to embrace. My hearing loss is not a weakness—it is a strength that has given me the opportunity to embrace a unique perspective of the world. I want to use my perspective to support others, and to better understand the silent systems that wordlessly shape our lives. Life can get really loud, but the most important things never need to be voiced to be understood wholeheartedly.