When I found out I would need hearing aids at 23, I was filled with unease and doubt. Hearing aids? In my 20s? That sounded like a joke. I pictured my grandmother’s elderly friend Bertha , who always had large tan plastic devices affixed to the sides of her head.
Back then, I thought wearing hearing aids would send me straight down the path to old age. I was worried that people would see those strange devices in my ears and instantly judge me. They might feel sorry for me or start yelling their words, as if I couldn’t comprehend their speech.
To ease my concerns, my audiologist handed me a sample Oticon hearing aid and a hand mirror. I tucked my hair behind my ear, adjusted the mirror, and saw the thin plastic tube wrapping around my pale cartilage.
“That’s pretty subtle,” I said to her, making eye contact.
Then she turned the devices on. The experience was like the auditory equivalent of wearing glasses after years of poor eyesight. I was shocked by the crispness of the words. Sounds I hadn’t heard in years started emerging: the soft rustling of fabric when I put on my coat, the muted thud of footsteps on a carpet.
What sealed the deal was when my audiologist showed me a promotional Bluetooth remote . The three-inch device allowed me to stream Spotify directly through my hearing aids, which, I had to admit, was pretty cool.
I loved the idea of walking down the street with a secret. People might notice my hearing aids, but the fact that I could stream music into my ears wirelessly was just for me. That little “superpower” felt incredibly liberating.
I decided to purchase the Oticon hearing aids .
Redefining “Superpower”
From then on, I embraced my new “cyborg” capabilities as a positive. On my morning commute, I relished in the fact that I was immersed in music without needing headphones. The latest Børns beats filled my inner world, even though I wore no headphones.
Years before Apple AirPods and Bluetooth headphones made wireless music commonplace, this made me feel ahead of the curve, like I had some kind of superpower. I started storing my hearing aids in my jewelry box, placing them in as I also put on my dangling earrings.
With the addition of wireless streaming, my accessories became more than just medical devices; they felt like tech-enabled jewelry. I could take phone calls without touching my iPhone and stream TV audio without needing a remote.
Soon enough, I began making jokes about my new accessories. One Sunday morning, my boyfriend and I visited his parents for brunch. I walked in and joked, “If I don’t answer you, it’s not because I’m ignoring you, it’s because my hearing aid batteries are low.”
When his dad laughed, I embraced my hearing aids as comedic material. Owning my body in this way made me feel like a taboo-breaker — and a funny one at that.
Discovering the Extra Benefits of Hearing Aids
As time passed, the perks of wearing hearing aids multiplied. I started enjoying turning off my hearing aids before going to sleep on planes. Whiny toddlers became angels, and I could nap without hearing the pilot announce our altitude. On the ground, I could silence the catcallers by simply pressing a button.
On weekends, I had the option to leave my hearing aids in my jewelry box and take a nearly silent walk through the chaotic streets of Manhattan . I no longer felt anxious about my “hearing deficiency” and began to enjoy the peace it brought.
Embracing My Inner Insecurities
As I became more accepting of my hearing aids, I also started recognizing the deeper reasons behind my past insecurities. The initial self-consciousness didn’t come from my hearing loss itself, but from the ageism I had internalized.
Thinking back on Bertha, her large hearing aids didn’t bother me anymore. In fact, I began to realize that wearing them was an act of immense confidence. Bertha never hid her hearing aids and wore them proudly. Rather than ridiculing her, I should have admired her self-assurance.
It wasn’t just about ageism. At the time, I didn’t know the term “ ableism ”, but I had unknowingly adopted a belief system that viewed able-bodied people as “normal” and disabled people as “exceptions.” I thought that if someone needed to park in a handicapped spot or use a wheelchair, something must be wrong with their body. But when I needed hearing aids, I realized that there was nothing wrong with me.
I began to understand that my concern wasn’t with my hearing loss itself, but with the stigma surrounding it. I had been equating aging with embarrassment and disability with shame. Now, I no longer saw age or disability as something to be ashamed of, but as a part of my body’s maturity and my life’s journey.
From Self-Acceptance to Pride
While I will never fully understand the complexities of navigating life as a deaf person, my hearing loss has taught me that disability encompasses a far wider range of emotions than the stigma suggests. I have gone through phases of self-acceptance, nonchalance, and even pride.
Now, I wear my hearing aids as a symbol of my ears’ maturity. As a millennial finding my footing in New York, it feels good not to be inexperienced or young at something.
