09/18/2026
I’m going to be very vulnerable for just a moment:
My voice was never the problem.
For 39 years, I thought I needed to try harder.
I struggled to hear people. I struggled to learn. I learned to watch faces and read lips. Eye contact has never been easy for me, but I learned to look toward people because sometimes seeing their words was the only way I could fully hear them.
And somehow, it was never caught.
Today, an audiologist finally listened when I said, “Certain tones are hard for me to hear.”
And there it was.
Hearing loss.
Not me ignoring people.
Not me failing to pay attention.
Not me being difficult.
Not me being “dumb.”
I simply wasn’t hearing the world the way everyone assumed I was.
For years, the hearing screenings I passed gave everyone reassurance, while I kept adapting. I filled in missing pieces. I watched mouths. I worked harder to understand instructions. I compensated so well that even I eventually believed the problem must be me.
Maybe if my little voice had been louder or more stern when I said I couldn’t hear or didn’t understand, someone would have listened instead of treating me like I was the problem.
But that little girl kept going.
She graduated high school in three years.
She earned a bachelor’s degree.
Then she earned two master’s degrees.
She became a Licensed Clinical Social Worker.
And she built a company with her husband.
She accomplished all of that while carrying this quiet belief in the back of her mind:
Maybe I’m just dumb.
Maybe I’m stupid.
Maybe I’m the issue.
Today, at 39 years old, I finally got to give that little girl a different answer:
You weren’t dumb. You were working twice as hard to understand a world you couldn’t always clearly hear.
And perhaps there’s something beautifully full-circle about the work I chose.
Children’s voices have always been easier for my ears to hear. And I fell in love with play therapy—a world where communication doesn’t depend solely on spoken words anyway.
In my office, a child can speak through sand.
Through toys.
Through art.
Through movement.
Through silence.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always understood so deeply that just because someone isn’t communicating in the way we expect doesn’t mean they have nothing to say.
Their voices will always be heard in my office—by my ears, my eyes, and my heart.
And, for the record, my husband now has professional confirmation that I really wasn’t ignoring him on purpose. 😂
Thirty-nine years of adapting, achieving, and wondering what was wrong with me.
Turns out, I just needed someone to listen when I said I couldn’t hear.
Here’s to hearing aids. 💚
And here’s to finally hearing the world without having to work quite so hard.
