For years, I danced with hearing loss like it was some awkward partner at a family wedding—you know it’s there, but you pretend everything’s fine. At work, where perfection was practically printed on our stationery, I developed some impressive coping skills. I became a master guesser, a half-decent lip reader, and always positioned myself with military precision—back to the wall, eyes on everyone. Ninja reflexes… but make it corporate.
Then came that meeting. The one where everyone spoke at once, and I sat there nodding like a bobblehead in a wind tunnel, clueless. That’s when I knew: something had to change.
So off I went on the adulting adventure of finding an audiologist. Test done. Diagnosis clear: “You, my dear, need hearing aids.” Simple enough, right? Ha. Welcome to the Hearing Aid Olympics.
I dove headfirst into research: battery-operated vs. rechargeable, Bluetooth features, apps, comfort, colors (yes, that matters), and more. Eventually, I settled on Unitron battery-operated aids—a solid match at the time. Rechargeables back then just didn’t have the stamina they do now.
The batteries? They last me around 5 days with about 12 hours of daily use. One pack lasts about 3 to 4 weeks—unless you’re buying from some retail giants, in which case your wallet might cry. I quickly learned my audiologist sold them in bulk for a much better price. Pro tip: always ask about bulk battery deals. You’re welcome.
And just like that, I thought I’d cracked it. New ears, new life! Cue happy music. Right? Not quite.
The moment I popped those little devices into my ears, my whole world shifted—for better and for worse. Suddenly, I could hear EVERYTHING: the fridge humming, my shoes squeaking, people breathing (seriously, why is everyone so breathy?). It was overwhelming, emotional, and honestly… oddly beautiful.
But here’s the truth: I was ashamed at first. I felt less-than. I avoided swimming—my favorite escape—because I feared water, and worse, I feared opinions.
So, I became my own client. I turned inward, used CBT techniques, and slowly rewired my mind. And now? I have a strange affection for my hearing aids. I dress them up with love, laugh at the things they pick up, and finally see them for what they are: a gift.
I’m still me. Whole, joyful, beautifully imperfect. And if you’re facing hearing loss too? Know this: you’re still complete. Just like me.
Hairgel, Bathroom Excuses, and Beep Alerts: My First Week with Hearing Aids
Yesterday was bliss. My first 12 hours wearing hearing aids went surprisingly well, no more “Huh?” or “Say that again?” or “Can you repeat that but slower, and also facing me?” My children were thrilled. We had a real, interruption-free conversation. I felt… hopeful.
But let’s rewind to day one. For some context, I wear my hair short on one side, just above the ear short—and longer on the other. Yes, it’s stylish. Yes, it made hiding my new hearing aids… interesting.
From the moment I popped them in that morning, self-doubt came skipping into the room like it owned the place. I suddenly felt incomplete, hyper-aware of these little gadgets behind my ears that, let’s be honest—I was certaineveryone could see, even though reality said otherwise.
At work, I avoided eye contact, barricaded myself in my office, and only spoke when absolutely necessary. If someone approached, I could swear their eyes zoomed straight in on the thin wires looping over my ears. I felt exposed. Judged. Vulnerable. I prayed for miracle hair growth—just two centimeters, please! And when that growth finally arrived, I made a quiet vow: no more ultra-short hair seasons. Ever.
Just when I thought I’d mastered the great hearing-aid hide, life threw me another curveball. Midway through a critical meeting—me, taking minutes and feeling rather official—I heard a soft beep in my ear. The battery was dying. My heart sprinted. I muttered some excuse (which I now can’t even remember), dashed to the bathroom, changed the batteries with the intensity of a Formula 1 pit stop, and raced back as if nothing happened.
Note to future users: Unitron’s app doesn’t show battery life (at least, mine didn’t). Some models do, and trust me, it’s a game changer. I adapted quickly, stashing batteries like a squirrel: in my handbag, laptop bag, office drawer, glove compartment—anywhere they’d fit. I got creative with my excuses too, but the shame lingered.
In those early months, nobody knew I wore hearing aids—except my kids. And despite the convenience, my confidence took a hit.
Then came a new, unexpected fear: water. I’ve always loved swimming, but now I was terrified. Terrified of being pushed into a pool, of misting fans at restaurants, of an innocent water balloon at a summer braai. So I withdrew. I stopped swimming. Became more introverted. My naturally social spirit dimmed, and I couldn’t even explain why to the people closest to me.
But a year in, I decided to turn things around. I began practicing CBT on myself, unpicking every fear, rewiring every thought. Slowly, patiently, I started shifting the narrative.
Six months of inner work later… everything changed.
Now, I love my hearing aids. They’re part of me. I watch videos freely, take hands-free calls like a pro, and yes—I even got back in the water.
The best part? Everybody knows I wear them. And I wear them with pride.
These nifty little devices have upgraded my life, boosted my confidence, and brought joy back into everyday moments. If you’re where I once was—feeling unsure, overwhelmed, or a little afraid—know this: you are not alone. And your hearing aids won’t diminish you.
They might just help you hear the best version of your life.