Maybe it started with the concerts, if you’d even call them that. 

One too many shows in basements, in garages. “Venues” not exactly known for their acoustics. Maybe it started as I stood next to stacks of amps meant to fill auditoriums, close enough to feel the kick drum in my chest, the chords of sweaty punk bands pulsing in my ears.

Or maybe it was marching band, sousaphones blaring and blasting, the drilling of a drum cadence, the insistent click of the metronome. 

I prefer the first origin story. It aligns with the mystique I’ve carefully crafted and cultivated, the image I’ve honed throughout high school with my thrift store cardigans and Doc Martins. 

But that image is accompanied by an unwanted accessory. 

At 17, I have a hearing aid. “Grandma-chic” is not what I was going for with those sweaters.  

Maybe it was the concerts. Marching band. Maybe it is none of those things, maybe all of those things. Cause is messy—but the impact is clear: a 26% loss of hearing in my right ear.  

At 17, I have a hearing aid.

Have. That is the operative word. 

Have. Verb. To own, possess, of hold. 

I didn’t say the word wear there, because I can’t say I’ve worn it consistently yet because I am adjusting.

I’m adjusting to the stigma, it feels embarrassing. 

This isn’t genetic, not something I was born with. I feel responsible. Repayment for all those nights spent moshing, pinballing through rooms with too-low-ceilings to Harrison Gordon’s sonic assault. 

I’m adjusting. This wasn’t the plan. No one imagines those warning about ear-protection can come true. 

I have more questions than answers.

Will I still be able to fly? Are my dreams of being a pilot grounded?

Will it continue to get worse? My hearing forever slowly slipping away from me.

Will I have to watch every show, every concert for eternity from the back row? 

My ears were invincible. Until they weren’t. 

My hearing loss crept in slow and steady, so gradual I didn’t even notice it. 

Until I did. 

I’m adjusting to the overstimulation. 

The tiny speakers tucked behind my ear magnify sounds I was immune to: the squeak of shoes, the chatter of voices echoing in the hall. 

When did we all become so out of breath? Our breath so labored? 

26%, something seemingly so far from total hearing loss, but still significant. Something I hadn’t realized had altered the soundtrack of my world. 

I have a hearing aid. 

There I said it. 

It’s something I am adjusting to.

And for now. I’m struggling. 

Change doesn’t always show. Struggles don’t always announce themselves. The people who look fine might be managing something you never notice, tucked discreatly away.

Mine hums with feedback and amplifies footsteps. It shapes how I move through the world.

But I am learning, you have to share those struggles so we can hear them. 

In my case [with subtitles].