When the World Got Quieter: Finding Curiosity, Grief, and Community in the In-Between

I wasn’t born Deaf, but in my early thirties, the universe decided to turn down the volume on me. I’m what’s known as late-deafened and nearly a decade later, I’m still learning what that means for me. I still have hearing on my right side, and I wear hearing aids that are both miraculous and confusing because you can’t amplify one sound without amplifying them all simultaneously (like that one time the screech of food court smoothie bar blenders absolutely took me out). I’m learning ASL too—an ongoing adventure that’s equal parts empowering, humbling, and occasionally comical. Nothing says “just roll with it” like accidentally signing the wrong word in front of a room full of people. I’m also an incredibly curious person by nature. I want to keep learning, adapting, and exploring what’s possible. That curiosity has become my lifeline as I learn to navigate  this new path . 

The grief I’ve experienced (and continue to experience) is also very real. I mourn losing the true sound of the voices of the people I love—their tones, inflections, the casual jokes I used to catch without thinking. I grieve the muting of everyday sounds too: birds in the gingko tree outside my bedroom, the sound of rain on the roof lulling me to sleep, and yes, the pure entertainment that is eavesdropping on some coffee shop drama at the next table. I miss it all. But grief isn’t the whole story.

With loss comes adaptation. I notice subtle shifts in expression, vibrations in a room, energy I can feel but not hear. Maybe I’ve become a kind of low-budget human radar system. Barriers are still exhausting (and at times deeply upsetting), but they’ve forced me to get creative, push back as often and as loudly as I can, and occasionally roll my eyes hard enough to risk permanent neck damage. My hearing aids and ASL skills are tools, yes—but they’re also my way of accessing the world and continuing to learn in ways I never imagined.

Accessibility isn’t a bonus—it’s the baseline of dignity. ASL interpreters, closed captioning, wheelchair ramps, automatic doors—these aren’t extras; they’re the foundations of a world where everyone can be actively engaged. Accessibility also helps create and sustain community. 

For me, community is where grief softens, humor emerges, and curiosity thrives. It’s not only about belonging—it’s about not having to explain yourself in order to participate. It’s sharing strategies and connections with people who know what it means to live in the in-between of what you’ve lost and what you’re building. Their lessons widen my world, and inspire me to keep asking questions, trying new things, and learning from every corner of life.

That’s why disabled voices matter in organizations like Laughing at My Nightmare. Without us, the story is incomplete. With us, it’s messy, real, funny, heartbreaking, resilient, and sometimes a little wacky. It’s grief and persistence, silence and sound, humor and heartbreak, and a desire to see and be seen. Honestly? It’s way more interesting than anyone else’s version of what our story should be.