She Was Always There

At age five, the MRI machine was my personal tree house, the stickers on the ceiling were my safe space. It felt cold; heated blankets are now a distant memory. It seemed like I spent an eternity inside that Magnetic Resonance Imaging Scanner. Maybe I just had one scan, but it felt as if it defined my entire childhood.

I was already a member of the Pirates of the Caribbean with my eye patch, and now I was also the world's worst Telephone player. My left ear's ability to understand speech reduced with time, declining from 68% to 48% by age 34. In the past, I needed hearing aids just as I do now, but back then I did not love myself enough to accept the help they would give me.

Growing up, my friends remained unaware of my hearing loss. As I aged, I'd jokingly tell them to sit on my right side. I'd nickname my left ear my "bad ear," attempting to make light of something that was crippling. But beneath the humor, the truth was harsh: I spent my life guessing what people were saying, and was never really sure if people truly heard me.

I relied on reading lips, facial cues, others' responses, and TV captions. I thought I was fooling everyone but it turns out, I was fooling myself. The revelation struck at an Ed Sheeran concert, of all places. Although I could hear the music, I knew I was missing out on the healing power of Ed's words

What else had I been missing? I decided then and there, it was time to invest in myself and leap out of my comfort zone, so I decided to do the scariest thing I could think of: I enrolled in an eight-week Feminine Empowerment Program known as Worthy. Guided by the energetic, powerhouse Danielle Kettlewell, an Olympic synchronized swimmer turned Women’s Empowerment Coach. The course sparked a profound shift within me. Its impact was nothing short of transformative. During my third immersive round of Worthy, we ventured into the depths of our Inner Child. With each cycle, I revisited feelings of unworthiness, lovelessness, the constant eye patch pity party, and the continual struggle with my “bad ear.” 

Just before this time, my mother embraced her own hearing aids, a subtle transformation that had remarkable power. The recent clarity in her world was profound — no longer did she utter a puzzled, "Huh, what?" Her voice softened, and the strain in her relationship with my father eased as efficient communication replaced old, daily struggles. Yet, despite witnessing this awe-inspiring evolution, I remained hesitant. Her loss of hearing was a consequence of the aftermath of a Foo Fighters concert, while mine was from a hereditary defect that I still had more questions than answers to. I decided to be brave and reach out to my mother's audiologist. Setting up the appointment was apprehensive, but necessary. I had long avoided a hearing screening since my middle school years. The truth loomed forebodingly; I knew I struggled with hearing, but the thought of a doctor voicing it made it unsettlingly real.

I went through a series of tests and had long conversations with my medical team and my family, and decided to give them a try. As I hesitantly tested the waters with the Signia Bi Cros Hearing Aids, tears overflowed then spilled down my cheeks. A new world unraveled before me. For the first time, my mother's and the doctors’ voices resonated with more clarity than I’d ever experienced. The muffled echoes of the past were replaced with a resounding revelation — “THIS! This is what has been missing from my life.” Perhaps now, with the ability to truly hear, I, too, would finally be heard.

As I started using my new set of "Kool Aids" out in the world, new sounds became overwhelming. Who needs to hear a baby crying, Creed playing overhead in a restaurant, and people chewing? I now understand the cringe.

As the months passed, I grew accustomed to my robot ears. I could hear the children singing in Africa. “Laughter has a sound,” I said when my friend Stephanie asked me how everything sounded. My own tone changed; my voice lowered, and I could finally enjoy my family of four – all together, all at once.

I have learned that even with hearing aids, my ears still cannot pick up more than one type of sound at a time. If the TV is on or music is playing in addition to outside conversation my brain always seems to choose unimportant sounds. With my doctor adjusting my Signia’s, background sounds have become less overwhelming. It could be her magic or my own brain figuring out the way it’s supposed to have worked all these years.

Each day, I discover a new sound, but I still can’t decipher where sounds come from unless it’s a voice. An important voice. The voice of a loved one. That I will never miss again. Those are the important sounds.

Danielle was hosting a retreat in Bali and I decided to treat myself (and my Inner Child) and booked a ticket. While at the retreat, my hearing aids got clogged. At the time, I did not know my hearing aids had filters, nor did I know how to change them. My new friends sat with me for hours and tried to help me figure out what was wrong with them. I had never felt so cared for.

In the end, we did not figure out how to fix them, so I spent the remainder of the retreat with my old set of ears. There I was, working on feeling HEARD and LOVED in BALI, on the other side of the world, and I had to resort back to life before “Kool Aids.” On the last day of the retreat, a friend gifted me a See No Evil monkey statue. He went on to explain that even though I was missing a sense, I was still seen and heard. That monkey still sits on my bedside table as a reminder, along with a photograph of all of my new friends from the retreat. 

What I learned throughout this year was that it takes a village. It was not just getting hearing aids that changed my life for the better or the unconditional love I received in Bali, it was everyone in my life who never gave up on me. The power was in myself, the whole time. I was heard by everyone in my life. Not everyone chose to listen, but the important ones did. I finally realized after 34 years, that all that really matters is that I use my voice and I listen to myself. Everything else falls into place. I can now say, I, Kate Stinson, am an Empowered Woman! 

Did you hear that? I certainly did!

Katherine Stinson is a 35-year-old author of Deserted Plateau, a poetry collection. As a published poet, she’s been featured in various magazines, including Clementine Zine, Pink Disco Magazine, Curio Cabinet, Letters to Lovers, and Honey Fair Magazine. In her free time, she enjoys writing and traveling. Professionally, she works as a Direct Service Professional at a nonprofit organization.





Written by Katherine Stinson


This essay was originally published in Girlhood Magazine.