Resonance

My daughter’s voice used to feel like a faint breeze, drifting around me just out of reach. I’d blame her mumbling; she’d joke it was just the Greek in me, my loudness filling in the gaps of what I couldn’t catch. We’d laugh it off over Sunday morning coffee, brushing aside the truth in a swirl of steam and shared smiles.

At work, it was the same story. “Can you say that again?” became a too-familiar refrain. My boss once suggested I follow up with an email to confirm the details—subtle advice that I knew was more of a warning. So, I booked a hearing test.

The receptionist’s surprise was audible when I told her my age. Apparently, I wasn’t “old enough” for my hearing exam to be covered by my insurance. I laughed it off, but it did give me pause. Two weeks later, I found myself at the audiologist's being fitted with tiny devices that promised to reconnect me to a world I hadn’t realized I was missing.

The transition was jarring. Everything seemed too loud—the hum of the fridge, the clink of cutlery, the rustle of paper. Even my own breathing sounded like a wave crashing in my ears. Some days, I crave the quiet I’d been living in for so long, but—I’m adjusting.

Life doesn’t pause just because your hearing changes.

Conversations at home and work are shifting. I hear my daughter’s words without straining. I catch details at work that I would’ve asked to be repeated. But more than that, I find myself listening differently.

“Active listening, at its best, doesn’t ask many questions,” writes Albert S. Rossi in Becoming a Healing Presence. “Some questions for clarification are okay, but questions can be a way of controlling the conversation and the other person. . . If we aren’t careful, questions easily slip into interrogations.”

Rossi’s words resonate. I realized how often I’d interrupted with a question or comment, trying to steer the conversation back to a place where I felt comfortable. Now, I try to hold back, letting silences stretch and allowing others to fill them in their own time. I’m learning that sometimes the most meaningful thing I can offer is space—space to speak, to pause, to be heard.

Active listening is about paying attention with your heart, not just your ears. It’s about being still and letting the other person’s words reach you. When I think about my Orthodox faith, it’s a lot like the practice of Hesychasm, where silence isn’t just the absence of sound, but a space for prayer and communion.

Listening without interruption or judgment creates a similar kind of space—one where true understanding and connection can grow.

I’m still getting used to these tiny AI-enabled hearing aids. Some days, everything feels too loud, and I miss the softer world I left behind. But this experience is teaching me that listening is about more than catching every word.

My hearing may be fading, but my ability to listen is stronger.

I'm learning that it's not about filling silences or jumping in with a question. It’s about letting the other person’s voice take shape and meeting them where they are.

Losing some of my hearing has made me a better listener in ways I never expected. I’ve come to understand that when we stop trying to control the conversation and let it unfold naturally, we connect more deeply—with others and with ourselves. And maybe that’s the real gift in all this: not just hearing, but truly being present.