Guest blog by aFLAME member Karen Brooks:
A personal reflection on hearing loss, workplace culture and the power of understanding.
“What can't you hear?”
It is one of the questions I get asked most often when people discover I am hearing impaired.
My answer is usually the same:
“I don't know because I haven't heard it.” 😊
The response normally gets a laugh, but there is truth behind the joke. I was born with a hearing impairment, so I have no point of comparison. I don't know what 'normal' hearing sounds like because I have never experienced it. The way I hear the world is simply the way I have always heard it.
That perspective has shaped my life, my career and my attitude towards disability in ways I only fully appreciate now.
For much of my life, hearing loss wasn't something I talked about. It wasn't a secret, but it wasn't something I felt defined me either. I adapted, found ways around challenges and got on with life. Looking back, I realise I was navigating workplaces, technology and social situations in a world that wasn't always designed for people like me. Yet I never saw myself as someone who needed special treatment. I just saw myself as the same as everyone else.
My hearing deteriorated significantly during my teenage years. By the time I graduated from university and started my career in IT, I was struggling to hear people clearly in many situations.
My early roles involved teaching people to use software and COBOL programming. Yes, COBOL – which probably tells you roughly how long ago this was!
I loved the work. I enjoyed helping people learn, solve problems and develop confidence with technology. The challenge wasn't the software; it was hearing the people I was trying to help. Questions from the back of a training room I just couldn’t hear. Conversations in busy environments required enormous concentration.
Eventually I was referred to an ENT specialist who delivered what remains one of the most memorable pieces of medical feedback I have ever received. At the age of 23, he informed me that my whole body was deteriorating, but my ears were doing it faster!
After a series of tests, I was diagnosed with nerve deafness. There was no obvious explanation for my hearing loss and I was considered an ideal candidate for a hearing aid. Apparently I will only know if you are saying the word FISH or DISH by the way your mouth moves. That’s great if I can see your mouth but there are many instances where that is not possible.
Soon afterwards I received my first NHS analogue hearing aid.
For the first time in years, I could hear people talking clearly again. It was transformative. But hearing aids are not magic. The analogue technology amplified everything, not just the sounds I struggled to hear. Voices became louder, but so did keyboards, air conditioning units, traffic noise and every other sound in the environment.
And there was another issue.
My hearing loss was severe in both ears, but I only had a hearing aid in one. While it helped enormously, I often felt unbalanced. Most people take directional hearing for granted. We naturally use both ears to understand where sounds are coming from and to create a sense of balance in the world around us. With only one aided ear, something always felt slightly off.
In my late twenties I decided to invest in a pair of private in-the-ear hearing aids. For the first time, I had hearing aids in both ears.
The difference was remarkable.
Suddenly the world felt balanced. Conversations became easier. Sound felt more natural. Although the technology was still analogue, the quality was dramatically better than anything I had experienced before.
Then came the next major breakthrough.
In my early thirties, I moved to Austin, Texas. Through private health insurance, I became eligible for a new pair of hearing aids. This time they were digital.
The transformation was extraordinary.
Digital hearing aids didn't simply make things louder. They were programmed to my hearing loss at different frequences. Speech became so much clearer, background noise became easier to manage and listening became significantly less tiring.
They also helped with something many people don't realise about hearing loss.
People often assume that someone with significant hearing loss wants everything turned up as loud as possible. In reality, sudden loud noises can be incredibly difficult. If you spend much of your life not hearing certain sounds clearly, an alarm or a siren can feel genuinely shocking.
Throughout all of this, however, I never considered myself disabled.
Until 2002, I worked in commercial and industrial organisations in teaching, marketing and technical support roles. I met hundreds of people, delivered training, attended meetings and built a successful career in a heavily male-dominated IT sector.
At no point did I disclose my hearing loss as a disability.
This wasn't because I was ashamed of it. Quite the opposite. I had simply learned to adapt. Hearing loss was my normal. I coped and I succeeded.
Perhaps being a woman in technology influenced my thinking. I already felt I had to prove myself in some environments. Whether consciously or unconsciously, I didn't want another label attached to me. I wanted to be judged on my knowledge, skills and contribution not disability or gender.
When I joined the university sector in 2002 I was asked on a health questionnaire to declare whether I had a disability.
I remember finding the question strange.
Why did it matter?
Over time, though, my perspective began to shift. Universities were talking openly about accessibility, inclusion and reasonable adjustments. Disability wasn't treated as an awkward subject. Instead, it was recognised as part of creating a workplace where everyone could contribute fully.
For the first time, I felt protected rather than exposed.
Slowly, I became more open about my hearing loss.
Even today, I still have a complicated relationship with the word disability. Legally and technically, my hearing loss is a disability. Personally, however, I still don't instinctively think of myself that way because I have never known anything different.
One thing I have learned over the years is that people are usually trying to understand, even when their questions seem unusual.
Another comparison I have heard is that hearing aids are just like glasses. I understand why people say it. We all use our own experiences as a reference point. If someone wears glasses, that becomes their closest comparison for understanding hearing loss.
The reality is more complex.
Hearing aids help enormously, but they do not restore hearing in the same way glasses often restore vision. Hearing involves processing sound, filtering background noise, understanding speech and interpreting meaning. Technology helps, but it doesn't recreate perfect hearing. Not being able to hear is hugely tiring. My brain has to work so much harder processing the information and filling the blanks.
That said, I never mind the comparison. It reminds me of something important: we all understand the world through our own experiences. The best thing we can do is listen to one another and try to imagine life from someone else's perspective.
And yes, there are advantages to being hearing impaired. I cannot hear my partner snoring, which I consider one of life's great gifts. I benefit from discounted travel and theatre tickets. Sometimes a friend can even attend as my companion for free.
I am also a huge fan of live captions in online meetings. Not because they always help, but because they can be unintentionally hilarious. Anyone who has watched automated captions attempt to interpret a strong regional accent will understand exactly what I mean.
Of course, there are still challenges.
People who cover their mouths while talking make communication much harder. So do people who turn away halfway through a sentence.
Whispering is another challenge. However well intentioned, it is one of the least effective ways of communicating with someone who has hearing loss.
My biggest bugbears are surprisingly common.
The first is people holding microphones directly in front of their faces. The microphone may help everyone else hear, but it completely removes the possibility of lip reading and I am at the mercy of the sound system in the room – often this is very poor.
The second is when someone asks a question from elsewhere in a room and the presenter answers without repeating it. If I cannot see the person asking the question, there is a good chance I have missed it entirely. Repeating the question before answering is one of the simplest accessibility adjustments anyone can make, yet it benefits everyone in the room.
Looking back over my career, I realise that accessibility is rarely about grand gestures.
It is usually about awareness.
It is about understanding that not everyone experiences the world in the same way.
It is about creating environments where people feel comfortable talking about their needs without worrying about judgement.
Most importantly, it is about recognising that inclusion benefits everyone.
My hearing loss has undoubtedly presented challenges throughout my life. But it has also taught me resilience, adaptability, empathy and the value of good communication.
If there is one message I would like colleagues to take from my story, it is this: not every disability is visible, and not every disabled person experiences their condition in the same way.
The most powerful thing we can do is remain curious, considerate with a willingness to learn from one another.
After all, none of us can fully understand another person's experience.
But we can always make the effort to listen and make them feel valued.
Karen
Ps. If you have a hearing impairment and would like to chat to someone and share challenges etc. then feel free to contact me via email kb2158@bath.ac.uk.
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