Yom Kippur: Remembering the Silence and Choosing to Move Forward

Yom Kippur asks us to pause. It asks us to look honestly at where we have been, where we are now, and how we want to move forward.

For me, remembrance during Yom Kippur is not only about recalling events. It is about remembering the person I was before I lost my hearing, the fear and uncertainty that followed, and the long process of learning how to live and work differently.

In 2012, I experienced sudden hearing loss. My world changed quickly. Sounds I had always taken for granted disappeared, and ordinary communication became exhausting. Returning to the workforce meant more than finding my way back to a job. I had to rebuild confidence and figure out how to participate in conversations, use technology, and explain what I needed—often while I was still learning those answers myself.

Returning Did Not Mean Going Back

One of the central ideas of Yom Kippur is teshuvah, often translated as repentance but also understood as return. Yet return does not always mean going back to exactly who or where we were before.

I could not return to the hearing person I had been. I had to move toward a new version of myself.

When I entered teaching, I was stepping into one of the noisiest workplaces imaginable. A classroom contains dozens of sounds at once: chairs scraping, pencils tapping, papers moving, computers chiming, children laughing, and several conversations competing for attention. My bilateral cochlear implants give me access to sound, but they do not automatically separate the voice I need from everything happening around it.

I also had to get used to sounds I had forgotten. Hearing children whisper again was almost startling. A whisper can be a small and wonderful reminder that sound has returned to my life. It can also be a challenge when I cannot tell who spoke or what was said. Sometimes I hear that a student is speaking without being able to turn the sound into clear words.

The Everyday Challenges People Do Not See

Answering the school phone is not a simple task for me. I often need to use the speaker so I can understand the caller. In a room filled with student voices and classroom noise, the speakerphone may still not be enough. Privacy can also become a concern. For a long time, I refused to answer the classroom phone because I knew the situation was stacked against me before I even said hello.

That was not laziness or avoidance. It was an access problem. I needed a different method, a quieter setting, written follow-up, or another person to help when the call involved information I could not afford to misunderstand.

School meetings create another kind of challenge. When several people speak, I have to locate each voice, shift my attention, watch faces, and use context to fill in what I miss. If someone talks while looking down, facing a screen, or turning away from me, I lose the facial expressions and mouth movements that help me infer the message. If two people begin talking at once, the conversation can become a wall of sound.

Other people may see me sitting quietly and assume I am following everything. They do not see how hard my brain is working to assemble the conversation piece by piece.

Honesty Is Part of Moving Forward

Yom Kippur encourages honest self-examination. For me, that includes admitting when I did not understand, when I avoided a difficult situation, or when frustration kept me from asking for help.

It also means forgiving myself for not hearing perfectly.

There is a temptation to pretend I caught every word because asking someone to repeat themselves can feel awkward. But pretending does not create understanding. I have learned to say, “Please face me,” “Can you repeat that?” or “Please send that information to me in writing.” Those requests are not signs of weakness. They are responsible ways to communicate.

Pressing forward does not mean ignoring the challenges. It means finding ways to work through them.

Adapting With Help

My audiologist has been an important partner in that process. Working with an audiologist is not a one-time appointment after receiving cochlear implants. It is an ongoing relationship. I have to describe what I am hearing, what I am missing, and which environments are most difficult. Programming adjustments, listening practice, and honest feedback all help me make better use of the technology.

I have also developed practical strategies at work. I sit where I can see the people speaking. I ask for one speaker at a time. I use captions on every video. I encourage students and families to use email or a messaging app when they have important concerns. I rely on written agendas and follow-up notes. When possible, I move detailed conversations away from competing noise.

None of these strategies removes every barrier. Together, however, they allow me to put more of my energy into teaching instead of constantly trying to reconstruct missed words.

The Return Continues

As Yom Kippur approaches, I remember the silence that entered my life and the uncertainty I felt about working again. I remember the sounds that eventually returned through cochlear implants—some familiar, some strange, and some almost forgotten. I remember the first classrooms in which I had to learn how to teach while also learning how to listen differently.

I am grateful for the progress, but I do not want to turn the story into a neat victory speech. Some days are still hard. Background noise still wins sometimes. Phones and meetings can still test my patience. I still miss words.

But I continue to return—to my work, to my students, to my community, and to a clearer understanding of myself.

That may be the lesson I carry into Yom Kippur this year: moving forward does not require becoming the person I was before. It requires honesty about who I am now, willingness to repair what I can, and courage to keep adapting.

What challenge has taught you to return to your life in a new way?