When I think back to my teenage years, I remember a time filled with confusion, frustration, and a deep, unspoken loneliness—though I rarely admitted it to anyone. I was just a kid trying to find my place in the world, all while quietly struggling with something most people couldn’t see: hearing loss.
At first, it was only in one ear. Mild. Manageable. I could still get by if I sat near the front of the classroom and paid close attention when someone spoke. But as the years went on, the hearing in my left ear declined. By my late teens, the gap between me and everyone else felt like a canyon I couldn’t cross, no matter how hard I tried.
When I was fourteen, I was fitted with my first hearing aid—a single device for my left ear. As a self-conscious teenager desperate to blend in, the thought of wearing it at school felt unbearable. That little piece of technology, meant to help me, felt more like a spotlight highlighting my difference. In my mind, it screamed, I don’t belong. And in those vulnerable years, fitting in meant everything.
I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t want to explain it. Back then, I honestly thought admitting I couldn’t hear was the same as admitting I was broken. So I did what so many kids with invisible struggles do—I faked it. I laughed when others laughed, even if I hadn’t caught the joke. I nodded along in conversations, praying no one would ask me a question. I pretended my way through entire school days.
Every six months or so, a visiting audiologist would come to school to test my hearing. I’d be called out of class and walk the halls feeling exposed, like a spotlight was on me. If a friend asked where I’d been, I made something up. I didn’t want them to know. I even convinced myself that if I just concentrated harder next time, I might “pass” the hearing test—as if hearing loss was something I could overcome with willpower alone.
Looking back now, I can’t help but wonder how much of my so-called “bad behaviour” or “attitude problems” were really just reactions to constant misunderstanding. I wasn’t trying to be difficult—I just couldn’t hear. In classrooms with echoing acoustics and constant background noise, trying to follow conversations or group discussions felt like trying to make sense of a foreign language without subtitles. I was tired. I was frustrated. And I was often confused.
I remember one particular incident in Year 9 that captured everything I was going through at the time.
There was this trend during break times—some of us would draw graffiti-style art on the blackboards with chalk. It wasn’t vandalism; it was more about creativity, boredom, and the need to express ourselves. One afternoon, I was up at the board sketching something with a few mates, caught up in the moment, laughing, feeling—for once—like I belonged.
Then one of the boys came over and started scribbling over my drawing. He was clearly trying to stir me up. I reacted instinctively, throwing out a swear word—not in anger, just typical teenage banter.
But the room suddenly fell silent. Too silent.
I hadn’t heard him come in. Mr. Z. The one teacher you didn’t want to mess with. He was behind me, having walked in just moments before. I hadn’t heard the door. Hadn’t picked up on the shift in the room’s energy. I had no idea he was even there.
He didn’t raise his voice. Just said one word: “Out.” Calm but cold. “Go to the principal’s office NOW!.”
I froze. There was nothing I could say. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in”? That would’ve sounded like an excuse. No one knew about my hearing loss. I hadn’t told them. In their eyes, I was just another smart-mouthed kid pushing boundaries.
What hit hardest wasn’t the punishment—it was the shame. The realisation that I hadn’t even known I was in trouble. I didn’t get the chance to catch myself, to correct course. That’s the part that stuck with me. I had been operating with half the information everyone else had, and that moment made it painfully clear.
It wasn’t just about missing words. It was about missing context—the subtle social cues, tone shifts, and background sounds that tell us what’s really happening in a room. Without them, I always felt like I was two steps behind, scrambling to keep up and terrified of what I might miss next.
The Weight of Silence
One of the hardest parts was how isolating it all felt. I don’t think people realise how exhausting it is trying to stay engaged when you can’t fully hear what’s going on. It’s not just the missing words—it’s the guessing game, the fear of looking “dumb,” the constant anxiety of always being a beat behind.
I didn’t have the language for it back then, but I was grieving—grieving something invisible. Something I hadn’t even realised I had until it started slipping away. There were no dramatic tears or breakdowns. Just a quiet, growing sadness that something was wrong, and I had no control over it.
No one ever sat me down and said, “It’s okay to have hearing loss. It’s not your fault, and you’re not alone.” So I kept it buried, thinking I had to be tougher, try harder, act normal. But inside, I was struggling—and I kept struggling long into adulthood.
I wish I could go back and tell that teenage version of me that it’s okay to ask for help. That pretending everything is fine only makes the weight heavier. That real strength isn’t about hiding your challenges—it’s about facing them head-on and owning your story.
What I Wish I Knew Then
There’s so much I wish I’d understood earlier:
- It’s not your fault. Hearing loss isn’t a weakness or a flaw. It doesn’t make you any less smart, capable, or worthy. It’s just part of your story.
- You don’t have to do it alone. There are people who want to help—teachers, audiologists, friends, mentors—but they can’t unless you let them in. Speak up. Advocate for yourself. You have every right to be supported.
- Assistive technology is your ally. I wish I had embraced hearing aids earlier. I used to see them as something that made me “different.” Now I see them as tools that gave me my world back.
- You don’t need to hide. The right people will accept you because of who you are—not in spite of it.
A Message to Young People (and Their Parents and Teachers)
If you’re a teenager living with hearing loss—or the parent of one—please know this:
You’re not broken. You’re not alone. And your story doesn’t end with hearing loss—it starts there.
Don’t wait as long as I did to come to terms with your hearing journey. Whether that means using hearing devices, learning communication strategies, or simply accepting your limits—be honest with yourself. Be kind to yourself.
If you’re a parent reading this, please don’t assume silence means everything is fine. Look deeper. Ask questions. Be patient. Try to understand what’s really going on with your child—especially if they seem distracted, unresponsive, or are struggling in school. Don’t jump to conclusions. Not answering, getting things wrong, or falling behind doesn’t necessarily mean they’re being insolent or inattentive. And it doesn’t always mean they have a learning disability. Sometimes, it’s something as simple—and as significant—as hearing loss. Seek expert advice. Ask the right questions. Push for answers. The sooner you know what’s really going on, the sooner you can give your child the support they need. They need to know they’re not weak for needing help—they’re brave for asking for it.
And to the teachers—please don’t underestimate the role you can play. You might be the first adult outside the family to notice something’s not quite right. Don’t assume that a student who seems disengaged or disruptive is simply being difficult. Sometimes, they just can’t hear you. Look deeper. If you suspect a student may be experiencing hearing loss, ask the question. Create a safe space. Sometimes it takes someone in a position of authority to bridge the gap—to offer support, show belief, and help start the healing process. That one moment of understanding could change a life.
Still Learning, Still Growing
I’m well into adulthood now, and I’ve spent most of my life navigating hearing loss. It’s shaped me in ways I never expected—some painful, some powerful. And while I can’t go back and change the past, I can use it to help others feel seen, understood, and a little less alone.
If you’re struggling, please know this: it gets better. You will find your people. You will find your voice. And you’ll come to realise that your hearing loss doesn’t define you—it refines you. It makes you more resilient, more compassionate, and more aware.
I’m living proof that even when things feel dark and disconnected, there is still a way forward. You are stronger than you know.
Talking Hearing Loss 
Leave a comment