Seven Days of Silence: Learning to Listen Again

When Silence Arrives

Silence has never been something I feared. I have often welcomed it, especially in my work as a doula. Silence creates space for breath, for waiting, and for presence. It allows me to sense what is happening without filling the room with words. It carries weight, but when used with care, it can also be a balm. I have watched it settle over a birth room like a soft blanket, grounding everyone present. I have relied on it during postpartum visits when no advice was needed, only stillness and listening. Silence has always been a companion to my work and my life.

But when silence is not chosen, when it arrives suddenly and strips the world bare, it is no longer comfort. It is suffocation.

Seven Days of Silence

Six months ago, that silence came for me. What began as a head cold turned into something I could've never imagined. A virus attacked my auditory nerves. I had just finished an overnight postpartum shift and crawled into bed, exhausted. I thought I would rest for a little while, get up, and do it again. When I woke, the world had changed. I woke up deaf. I was unable to hear anything in either ear.

I watched the second hand tick on my kitchen clock, but the sound eluded me. My cats climbed onto my bed, their bodies warm against my side, and though I could feel their purrs vibrating, I couldn't hear them. Even the sound of my own voice was swallowed. I could speak, but I couldn't understand myself or anyone else. The silence was literally deafening.

At first, I told myself it was nothing. Ears can be blocked with a cold. Pressure can make sound vanish. I tried steam, I tilted my head, and I shook it like a swimmer fresh out of the pool to clear my ears. I waited. I went to my next postpartum overnight shift. I hovered over that baby monitor like an anxious new parent. By this point, I was beside myself. Panic had set in.

Urgent Intervention

I knew after 24 hours that something was seriously wrong. I made an emergency appointment with my family doctor, communicating with a fragile lifeline of a speech-to-text app on my phone. I broke down. I was terrified. He examined me carefully and immediately referred me for an urgent ENT assessment. I had an appointment the next morning. This interaction reminded me of how reliant we all are on sound, and how much it shapes our connections.

The next morning, the ENT confirmed the diagnosis of a sudden bilateral sensorineural hearing loss. In layman's terms, it is known as an ear stroke. My case was atypical, as this usually occurs in one ear only. Immediate treatment was required. Corticosteroid shots through my eardrums were started in hopes that blood flow to my auditory nerves could be restored. I was also given some potent oral antibiotics. For the next four long days, I waited. Each day, I lay on the exam table in the ENT's office, medicine filling my ears, clinging to the hope that it would work. Only on the third round of shots, on day seven, did sound finally return. When it did, it was faint, thin, and fractured, like listening to sound underwater. I cried tears of relief. I could at least hear...something!

However, everything seemed like incoherent noise at first. Voices blurred. Crowded rooms turned into chaos in my head. And the ringing, the high-pitched reminder of what had changed, never fully left. I slept with my phone on my chest, as I was worried I would miss a call for a birth. I didn't trust I'd hear it. Each day was a slow uphill battle to interpret what I could and couldn't hear. But I was determined to rise above it.

Retraining My Brain

Six weeks ago, I had surgery with another ENT specialist in Calgary to improve my hearing. This surgery offered a second chance, though it was not a simple or quick fix to restore my hearing completely. This surgery meant retraining my brain once again. Sounds I had fought to recognize, now arrived jagged, distorted, and faint once again. Slowly, patterns began to settle. I had to learn to listen all over again. Each moment of clarity, every word that finally made sense, felt like a fragile victory.

I am closer to where I was hearing six months ago, though not fully. I now heavily rely on hearing aids and coping strategies. Sometimes group conversations slip through my grasp. Noisy rooms still overwhelm me. I live in a liminal space. Part hearing. Part deaf. I read lips more than I'll admit. I smile and nod when I can't follow conversations and withdraw when I become overstimulated from trying too hard. I adjust constantly. Yet each clear word, each melody that rings true, and each whisper I catch, feels miraculous. The headset I bought to start my podcast is now used daily to challenge both my audiology comprehension and my brain's neuroplasticity. I'll get back to podcasting one day. Meanwhile, I am still here. I am still working. I am still living. My ears may have betrayed me, but the rest of me is intact.

Building brain neuroplasticity through audiology practice after a bilateral ear stroke.

Listening Differently as a Doula

This silence forced me to face my fragility. It showed me how quickly the ordinary can vanish. It reminded me that control is only an illusion. It didn't allow me to think about change as a distant idea but demanded that I live it in my bones.

As a doula, this loss reshaped my work. Birth is alive with sound. The steady rhythm of a mother’s breath as she rides a contraction. The shift in her voice as labour deepens. The soft encouragement of a birthing partner leaning close. These are cues I have always trusted. They guided me when to speak, when to comfort, and when to hold back. Without them, or with them muted and distorted, I feared I might lose part of my ability to serve birthing families.

But something unexpected happened. I found new ways to listen. At a birth early in my recovery, I noticed the way a mother’s jaw tightened before her breath changed. I saw the way her shoulders pulled up before a wave gripped her body. I felt her contraction through my hand as she pressed into her partner. The subtle vibration of each moan travelled through the bed. My ears caught only fragments, but my body understood the rhythm. I was able to respond, to guide, to support, even in the absence of clear sound.

The same happened in a postpartum room. A new mother sat cradling her newborn, her eyes tired. Words came softly, but I had already seen the weight in her shoulders and the tremor in her hands as she shifted her baby. I noticed the way the infant pressed against her mother's chest, the tiny shiver of a stretch and the sigh of contentment. I knew what that mother needed before the words finished leaving her mouth. My listening had shifted from ears to presence, from sound to body, from words to energy in its purest form.

Gratitude and Grit

Gratitude threads itself through my grief. I'm grateful for the doctors who acted quickly. For medicine that returned most of what was lost. For colleagues who slow their words and face me when they speak. For clients who continue to trust me and meet me where I am. For the rain tapping against my window, even when the sound is not as full as before. For my cats pressed close, their vibrations are a reminder that life communicates in more ways than ears can hear.

But grit is what carries me forward. I refuse to let this challenge define me. I refuse to let it shrink who I am and what I offer the world. I found beauty in the quiet and a well of strength in struggle.

This may be my new normal. The ENT has warned that more invasive surgery is likely. Hearing aids, assistive devices, and coping strategies will remain my companions for the time being. Acceptance doesn't come easily for me. It doesn't come without tears, but it comes with the resilience life has asked of me time and again. I've always said I was the queen of adapt and adjust. I can pivot faster than most people can process. My husband's illness taught me that personality trait.

What I've learned in the last six months is that silence is not empty. It is full of lessons, grief, and possibilities. It has been a teacher not of my choosing, but one I can't ignore. I will keep listening, not with my ears alone but with my whole being. I'll listen to the rhythm of mothers-to-be labouring in birth rooms. I'll listen to the fatigue and love carried in the bodies of new parents. I will listen to the pulse of life that continues, whether I can hear it clearly or not.

Losing my hearing cracked something open in me. I'll never forget the fear, the frustration, and the isolation. I'll never forget the slow, uncertain return of sound and the way it forced me to relearn the world. Though I grieve what I have lost, I also stand in awe of what remains. My seven days of silence and six months of recovery showed me what truly matters. It has taught me to listen with more than just my ears and to meet life with patience, presence, and persistence. And I'm still a badass doula.