I was five when everything changed. One moment I was chasing my brother through the backyard, the next I was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by silence. The accident—a fall from the treehouse—left me with a head injury that stole my hearing. At first, I thought the world had gone quiet out of sympathy. But it hadn’t. It was me. I was deaf.
The days that followed were filled with confusion and frustration. I couldn’t hear my mother’s lullabies or the sound of rain on the roof. I learned to read lips, to feel vibrations, to adapt. But inside, I grieved the loss of something I didn’t know I’d miss so deeply.
Over time, silence became my companion, not my enemy. I discovered music through touch, laughter through expression, and connection beyond sound. My world didn’t shrink—it transformed. I became more observant, more empathetic, more attuned to the emotions behind words.
Now, I speak through my hands and listen with my eyes. That accident didn’t just take my hearing—it gave me a new way to experience life. And while I’d never wish it on anyone, I’ve found beauty in the quiet.
