Guide | 2.2 – Narrative Structure

My eyes flutter open and I see blinding lights. I feel an overwhelming nausea, grab the bucket next to me and throw up. I lay my head down in exhaustion and feel a cast around my head. I had just gotten surgery on my left ear to have bilateral cochlear implants for profound deafness. This was the start of my journey.

I was the kid who had to spend hours after school rebuilding my speech and language skills with a speech therapist, the one who always wore my hair down so no one would notice the implants, the one at the swimming parties who would pretend I had to go to the bathroom just so no one would see me take them off. And every night I had to remember to charge my batteries, so I could hear the next day.

On top of all this, I was also shy. In school, I sat in the back of the class so no one would notice me. When my teachers forgot to turn on my microphone in class, I wouldn’t say anything because I was afraid to bring attention to myself. After school, I had to review my classmates’ notes because I couldn’t simultaneously write and hear everything the teacher said. I remember so strongly a feeling of unfairness that I was literally the only student in my school who had to deal with these issues.

There was one place where I was an equal and didn’t feel like I was constantly catching up: my ballet classes. There, I was more outgoing and didn’t constantly feel pressured to speak—dance was a language that didn’t require talking. Though dance became an escape, it still wasn’t enough to balance out my need to fit in.

In order to overcome my nearly constant frustration, I decided I needed to connect to my deafness. I started an internship with a speech pathologist and for the first time interacted with other people with hearing loss: kids of all ages, each with their own struggles. During junior year, I did an independent study and learned more about the effects of deafness on language development.

When I heard about Leadership Opportunities for Teens (LOFT), a program that promotes leadership skills and self-advocacy with teenagers like me, I joined. There, I had an epiphany. During a discussion with other participants from all over the country, several of them spoke of being bullied, and I realized for the first time how supportive my own academic environment had been. Whereas other students dealt with taunting and physical abuse, I was in a school with accommodating teachers and students who were curious about my experience. The only person who had been contributing to my shyness and fear was myself. And from my dance experiences, I knew I was capable of more.

Armed with my new knowledge of the science of deafness and a little hope, I began advocating for myself. Instead of feeling overwhelmed, I began to feel proud of my abilities to keep up with my hearing peers. Gradually, I found myself feeling more relaxed in school and empowered to try new things I had never done before, like running, volleyball, and cheer. I even began introducing myself to strangers. Now, as a senior, I find myself in leadership positions like yearbook editor and a freshmen mentor. And every time a teacher forgets to turn on the microphone, I raise my hand in front of the entire class and remind the teacher to please turn it on. And she does.

I’ve spent my whole life dealing with my hearing loss and the obstacles it threw in my path. Looking back at the moment where I woke up from surgery, I don’t think of the nauseating side effects; I see it as a blessing that gave me the gift to hear and a challenge to overcome obstacles that have made me braver.