Over the past few weeks, I’ve researched everything I could in preparation for my cochlear implant surgery on July 2nd. I compared manufacturers. I read studies. I joined support groups. I asked strangers about music, speech, batteries, accessories, apps, surgery, recovery, and whether they would make the same decision again. I was searching for certainty. What I found instead was something much more valuable.
Hope.
No one could promise me exactly what I would hear. No one could tell me how my brain would adapt. No one could guarantee that my experience would match anyone else’s. Every cochlear implant journey is different because every brain is different. At some point, the research had done all it could do. The decision was no longer about finding guarantees. It became a question of whether the possibility of hearing more clearly was worth the uncertainty of trying. That realization reminded me of a photograph I took years ago at the Chicago Botanic Garden.
All around me, people were photographing colorful flowers and beautifully designed gardens. I was lying on the ground photographing a tiny weed. It had found a narrow shaft of sunlight beneath plants much larger than itself. Its stem bent toward that light with everything it had. It wasn’t beautiful because it was perfect. It was beautiful because it refused to stop growing. I called the photograph Reach. At the time, I thought it was about resilience.
Now I think it’s actually about hope. Hope isn’t standing in the sunlight and waiting for something good to happen.
Hope is believing it’s worth reaching for the light, trusting you’ll learn to grow wherever the light finds you.
