Classroom Echoes: When I Heard, but I Wasn’t Heard

I’ve spent most of my life trying to listen — not just with my ears, but with my whole heart.

As a cochlear implant user, stepping into a classroom wasn’t just about learning lessons. It was about navigating sound, silence, and everything in between. While others heard without thinking, I had to think just to hear. And even then, I often felt like I wasn’t truly heard.

The Sound of Struggle

From the outside, I looked like any other student. I sat in the same rows, held the same notebooks, and nodded when the teacher spoke. But inside, I was straining focusing hard to catch every word, lip-reading when the voice became unclear, silently praying the teacher wouldn’t turn away while talking.

There were days when I sat in class and wondered if the lessons were meant only for students who could hear effortlessly. Teachers taught as if everyone was catching every word, but for me, even a single sentence took a few seconds longer to process. By the time I understood one part, the next had already begun.

Sometimes, teachers dictated notes out loud, their voice floating across the room and students followed, writing each word quickly and smoothly. But I couldn’t follow like that. I had to glance at my classmate’s notebook, trying to copy from theirs. They wrote fast, turned the page before I finished, and I was left behind. That moment brought tension, frustration, and a growing sense of panic.

And then, suddenly, a question would be thrown at me. The teacher would point and ask something. But how could I answer, when I was still stuck two steps behind? I’d sit there, frozen, eyes wide, heart pounding and silence would answer for me. It made the whole situation worse. I wasn’t just lost. I was exposed.

Announcements were another struggle. I missed many spoken too quickly, too softly, or when I was focusing on listening to something else. When I asked my classmate what was said, they’d often reply in a whisper directly to my ear. But even then, it was hard to understand clearly. If I asked again, their patience would slip. Some would shift uncomfortably, tense up, or move away to another bench leaving me alone.

No one wanted to sit with me after a while. And that broke something inside me. Some began to look at me differently not with curiosity or concern, but with quiet judgment. I heard whispers. Saw the glances. A few people assumed I was mentally unstable, just because I was quiet, struggled to speak clearly, or didn’t react like everyone else. But they never knew the truth. I wasn’t broken. I was just unheard, misunderstood. Living in a world that rarely paused to understand the silence behind my silence.

Even the constant humming of the ceiling fan distracted my hearing, blending with the teacher’s voice and making everything unclear. During seminars, I tried to speak I really tried. But my words didn’t sound like others’. My voice cracked, or the rhythm was off. Some students laughed quietly. Some just avoided looking at me, as if my effort made them uncomfortable. That situation… was unexplainable. And unforgettable.

Ironically, the only time I truly felt part of the class was during the pandemic. Online classes came with Google Meet’s live captions and for the first time, I could follow everything. Word by word, without missing a beat. It was a strange kind of relief.

But after the pandemic, masks became a part of life and lip-reading disappeared. That made everything worse. I had already felt like I was behind, but now I felt locked out completely.

From the beginning, making friends was hard. People came close but never stayed. Some acted like friends, but I could feel it wasn’t real. Everyone eventually left.

The Noise in Group Discussions

Group discussions were the hardest. Everyone talked over each other, words flying like birds in the sky like fast, scattered, and impossible to catch. I tried to listen, but I couldn’t follow who was speaking. By the time I figured out what one person said, someone else had already responded.

There was no space to pause, no time to think. Just pressure. I wanted to speak up too, to say my thoughts, but when I finally opened my mouth but the timing was off. Either someone interrupted, or they had already moved on.

Some looked at me strangely when I didn’t speak. Others thought I wasn’t interested, or worse, not smart enough. But they didn’t know the truth I had thoughts, I had ideas. But I needed time. I needed space. I needed patience. And in those loud circles, none of that existed.

So I stayed quiet. And slowly, that silence became my seat in every discussion not out of choice, but because I was pushed into it.

One Voice That Changed Everything

Not all moments were hard. I still remember one teacher who looked directly at me whenever she explained a concept. She paused, made sure I had time, and gently asked, “Did that make sense?”

That small question made a huge difference.

Another time, during a lab session, a classmate slowed down while talking to me, repeating her words without frustration. She didn’t treat me differently just kindly. That moment still stays with me.

Those little things eye contact, patience, checking in may seem small to others, but for someone like me, they echo louder than any voice.

Beyond the Classroom Walls

My experience in the classroom wasn’t just about academics. It shaped the way I saw myself. For a long time, I believed being quiet meant being less capable. That not speaking up meant I didn’t have anything to say.

But now, I know that’s not true.

The classroom may not have always heard me, but I’ve learned to hear myself. To give my own voice the space it never got in those four walls. I’ve learned that silence doesn’t mean weakness. It means listening deeply, feeling deeply and growing from it.

What I Wish Others Knew

To teachers: A little eye contact, a pause, or a simple “Do you want to add something?” can give a student like me the courage to speak.

To classmates: Slow down just a little. Invite us in. You may discover we have more to say than you ever expected.

To others like me: You are not unheard. Even if they don’t notice you, your presence matters. Your silence is not emptiness it’s strength waiting to speak.

Final Thought: 

I heard the lessons. I heard the laughter. But what I needed most was to be heard not by sound, but by heart.
And now, I’m learning to make sure my voice reaches beyond the classroom walls.