“I can’t hear without the CI system, but you can. If I can figure out how to talk to you, but you can’t figure out how to talk to me; why do people called me disabled?” — drjoei

It was known as “Silent World.” It’s the term the hearing use, a label placed upon deaf individual with a mix of pity and fascination. To people, it might sound like an emptiness, a void where something essential is missing. But from where I stand, one foot in your world and one in mine, silence is a concept that doesn’t quite translate. My world is not defined by an absence of sound. It is defined by a different kind of presence.

I am a post-lingually Deaf. My identity is not wrapped in a memory of lost music or forgotten voices. My native language is not spoken; it is felt. It is in the fluid poetry of sign language, where thoughts are shaped by hands, expressed by the face, and understood by the eyes. My world is vibrant, rich, and complete. I feel the rhythm of the world through the vibration in the floor as someone walks by, the pulse of bass from a speaker, the visual symphony of a city street. Conversation is an intimate dance of expression, not a exchange of distant sounds. This is not a world of silence; it is a world of vision and vibration.

And then, there is the cochlear implant.

To call it a “cure” is a violence to the culture and community I call home. It is not a fix. It is a bridge, and crossing it is a choice fraught with complexity.

The decision to get the implant wasn’t about rejecting my Deaf self. It was about arming myself with another tool for navigation. The surgery gifted me not with natural hearing, but with a new sense: electrical hearing.

The first activation was nothing like in the movies. There was no angelic choir, no sudden, clear understanding of my mother’s voice. It was a chaotic, overwhelming assault of… everything. A door closing wasn’t a soft click; it was a jarring BANG that made me jump. Paper rustling was a violent, crinkling static. My own voice was a distorted, robotic garble I didn’t recognize.

This was “sound,” but it was raw, unfiltered data. My brain, unaccustomed to processing this strange electrical input, had to learn a completely new language. It was exhausting. I would leave a crowded room after twenty minutes with a migraine, longing for the peaceful clarity of my visual world. In those early days, I would often switch the processor off, retreating into the familiar, comfortable silence that hearing people so fear. It was my sanctuary.

But slowly, with months of auditory therapy—a process of literally teaching my brain what each distorted signal meant—the chaos began to find order. That jarring BANG refined itself into the concept of a “door.” The crinkling static sorted itself into “paper” or “leaves.” The robotic garble became my own voice, a sound I now own.

I began to appreciate the natural world through this new, digital lens. I learned that rain has a sound—a gentle, pattering static on leaves and pavement. Wind is not just a feeling on my skin; it is a low, whispering rush through trees. I learned that different birds have different songs, though I still cannot identify them by ear alone. These are not the profound, emotional experiences a hearing person might imagine. For me, they are intellectual discoveries. They are data points that add a fascinating, parallel layer to my existing understanding of the world. I see the rain, feel its coolness, and now, I also have this new, digital confirmation of its presence.

The truth of my life is one of constant code-switching. There are days I wear my cochlear implant processor proudly, engaging in phone calls, appreciating music for its rhythm and vibration, and enjoying the ease of a casual conversation even still needed to stare intently at someone’s lips. And there are days I leave it on my nightstand. On those days, I immerse myself fully in the Deaf world, where my hands fly and my eyes listen, where the silence is not empty but full of connection.

The “Silent World” is a misnomer. My world is not silent. It is built on a foundation of deep listening—listening with the eyes, with the hands, with the heart. The cochlear implant did not bring me into the hearing world; it expanded the borders of my own. It gave me a key to a door I can choose to open or close.

I am not broken. I am not waiting to be healed. I am a citizen of two worlds, a translator between two ways of being. And my world, in all its forms, is beautifully, powerfully whole.