When Silence Feels Like a Missing Piece

People often tell me, “You’re lucky, you can just turn it off.”
They mean my cochlear implant.
To them, it is a magic button, something that lets me escape noise, avoid chaos, and enjoy silence whenever I wish.

They imagine silence as peace. But for me, silence feels like something missing, like part of my world suddenly fades away.

When I remove my processor, the world does not just go quiet, it disappears. The walls still stand, but they no longer speak. The air feels still, too still, as if life itself pauses. Even if I sit in a calm room, my mind does not rest. It searches for sound, a hint of wind brushing the leaves, the hum of a fan, the soft rhythm of footsteps, the comfort of knowing I am still part of this world that makes noise.

People say noise distracts them. For me, sound keeps me grounded. Without it, my focus drifts; my thoughts float in an invisible fog. I crave even the tiniest sound, a bird’s chirp, a door creak, or my own breath breaking the quiet. Those sounds are not just background; they are reminders that I exist within something alive, something moving.

Silence, to me, is not a pause. It is a space too wide, too hollow. It is like watching a movie with the volume muted, the story continues, but emotion fades. I know the world is still there, but I cannot feel it.

And yet, this does not mean I hate silence. I have learned to respect it, to see it as a part of my balance. But I have also learned that sound is my heartbeat. It gives rhythm to my thoughts, motivation to my actions, and warmth to my emotions.

Whenever my processor battery dies, I feel an urgency, a need to hear again. Not out of fear, but out of longing. Because hearing, for me, is not just a sense, it is a connection. It is how I belong, how I stay curious, how I keep growing.

My cochlear implant does not make me “lucky” because I can turn sound on and off. It makes me grateful because I have learned to value every single sound, things most people never notice. The rain tapping on the window, the laughter in the distance, the whisper of wind at dawn, each one reminds me how precious hearing truly is.

Maybe that is why I am “addicted” to sound.
Because in every tone, every note, every echo, I find pieces of myself.
And when silence comes, I do not see it as an escape, I see it as a reminder of how much I have fought to hear again.

Sound completes my world.
It fills the empty spaces.
It makes me feel alive.
Because when silence feels like a missing piece, sound is what makes me whole again.