For years, I believed that if I worked hard enough, prepared enough, and proved myself enough, I could overcome any obstacle placed in front of me. I had spent my entire life adapting to a hearing world, and I assumed that determination would always be enough. But I would learn that it wasn’t always enough. Too often, the path forward hinged on something I couldn’t control: my hearing, or more accurately, the lack of it.
When I graduated from Rowan University, I thought I was ready. I had the degree, writing experience, and enough SEO knowledge to get started. A job at WebiMax, a digital marketing agency, was exactly what I wanted, and I believed I had earned my chance. I didn’t yet realize how many barriers stood between wanting something and actually getting it.
I applied to WebiMax like I was applying for something I’d already decided belonged to me.
I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t second-guess whether I was qualified enough or experienced enough. I had seen people I knew step into roles there right after graduation, and I told myself I could do the same. I wanted to be a content writer. That part felt obvious. Writing was the one thing I trusted about myself.
I had built a portfolio through blog posts, web content, and my work with Bit Rebels. I knew how to write for an audience, and while I was still learning SEO, I believed I knew enough to get started. The rest, I figured, I could learn along the way.
WebiMax never responded.
I applied again for an Inbound Marketing position. I didn’t fully understand the role, but it involved blogging and SEO. It felt like my chance, so I submitted my application and waited.
That was when they finally reached out.
I wish I could say it was simple from there. That I got the interview, nailed it, and stepped neatly into the life I had imagined. That is not how any of this works.
The first hurdle was the phone interview.
It is such a small, ordinary step for most people. A quick screening call. Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. But for me, it was a wall.
I can’t hear on the phone.
By that point, I had already learned that this was where most opportunities ended for me. Employers expect phone calls. They rely on them. They use them to gauge confidence, clarity, and quick thinking. When you can’t participate, you immediately look like a problem.
I had tried to navigate it before. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear on the phone. Is it okay if my mom takes the call and translates?” It always sounded wrong, no matter how I phrased it. Unprofessional. Complicated. Easy to pass over in favor of the next candidate who could just pick up the phone.
WebiMax was different.
Julie, the director of human resources, didn’t hesitate. She suggested we do the interview over email. She sent the questions almost immediately, as if it were the most natural accommodation in the world.
I didn’t answer right away.
There was no way I was going to rush through responses to questions for a job I had been chasing for months. I read each question carefully. I drafted answers. I revised them. I read them out loud to myself. I showed them to my family. I double-checked facts. I let the responses sit, then came back and edited them again.
By the time I hit send, I had memorized half of what I wrote.
Julie replied the next day. She said she was impressed. She said I would be a great fit. She scheduled me for an in-person interview with the director of inbound marketing, Richard Orwell.
I had never been more excited for anything in my life.
Everything shifted. Even my job at Walmart felt temporary in a new, tangible way. I could see the exit. I just had to get through one more door.
I focused on what I would wear with an intensity that felt disproportionate but necessary. I bought two suits. One safe, one bold. The safe one was navy. Clean, professional, forgettable. The other was a hot pink blazer I instantly loved, then immediately doubted.
I changed my mind about a hundred times. In the end, I chose the pink blazer with blue slacks. I told myself it showed personality. Creativity. Confidence. I told myself it would make me memorable.
I needed to be memorable.
The interview started well.
Richard had a voice that sat perfectly within my hearing range. Deep, clear, steady. I didn’t have to ask him to repeat himself often, which immediately lowered my anxiety. We talked about my writing, my experience with Bit Rebels, and my understanding of SEO. He seemed genuinely interested. At one point, he brought in Jillian, the team lead. She was quieter but engaged. I felt like I was connecting with both of them.
For a moment, I let myself believe I had it.
Then the interview shifted.
There is always a moment when an interview stops being comfortable. When the questions move from familiar to abstract. When there is no clear right answer.
Richard asked, “Your co-worker makes a mistake. How do you handle it?”
What I heard was, “Your co-worker makes you sick. How do you handle it?”
I froze.
I had prepared for everything. Company history. Services. SEO strategies. Common interview questions. I had rehearsed answers until they felt automatic. But this question did not exist in any guide I had studied.
Your co-worker makes you sick.
Was it literal? Were they asking about illness in the workplace? Or was it figurative? Did they mean someone who irritated you? And if so, what authority would I even have to handle it?
I didn’t have time to unravel it.
“Did you say, ‘a co-worker makes you sick… how do you handle it?’” I asked.
Richard tried to hold it in, but I saw the smirk. Jillian didn’t even try. She laughed openly.
“No,” he said. “I asked, ‘a co-worker makes a mistake.’”
My face burned.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I heard you wrong. I’m hearing impaired,” I said, trying to recover, trying to steady myself.
I answered the question. Something about supporting the coworker, correcting the mistake, helping them improve. I don’t remember the exact words. I only remember the feeling of scrambling back to where I thought I had been five seconds earlier.
When the interview ended, Jillian showed me around the office.
I took that as a sign. Why else would they do that? Why invest more time if they weren’t seriously considering me?
When I got home, I sent thank-you emails immediately. Then I went further. I bought cards and wrote handwritten notes to Richard and Jillian. I wanted to be the candidate who did more. The one they remembered.
Then I waited.
A week later, Julie emailed me.
They said I was a great fit. They said they were impressed. They said they couldn’t fill the position at that time but would keep me in mind.
I read it like every rejection. As proof that I had failed.
I replayed the interview over and over. The only thing that stood out was the misheard question. I convinced myself that was it. That one moment had defined me. That they saw me as difficult, as a liability, as someone who couldn’t communicate.
I stayed at Walmart.
It felt like every day I opened social media, I saw another announcement from a former classmate celebrating a new job, a career milestone, or the next step in their professional journey. I was happy for them, but each announcement also reminded me that I was still waiting for my opportunity. While others were beginning their careers, I was entering PLU codes for bananas, cleaning up spilled milk, and explaining to customers that I had no control over why their card had been declined.
The hardest part was not the work itself. There was nothing wrong with working at Walmart. The hardest part was feeling like I had worked so hard to earn my degree, build my skills, and overcome so many obstacles, yet I was still struggling to get someone to give me a chance.
But I refused to believe Walmart was where my story ended. I kept applying, kept searching, and kept believing that eventually someone would see my potential and give me the opportunity I had been waiting for.
Then things started to change.
My LinkedIn profile started getting views. Messages followed. Interview requests. One from The Christian Post in New York. Another from an agency I barely remembered applying to.
Then, unexpectedly, an email arrived that wasn’t another rejection, another interview request, or another reminder that I was still waiting.
It was an offer.
From WebiMax.
I didn’t hesitate. I accepted immediately.
I started as an inbound marketer.
The learning curve was steep. SEO was not something you could learn once and be done with. It changed constantly. Algorithms shifted. Strategies evolved. What worked one week could become irrelevant the next. I learned quickly because I had to.
What surprised me most was that they didn’t treat my hearing as a barrier.
The expectation was simple. Do the work. Do it well. Do it on time.
When phone calls were required, I needed help. I couldn’t avoid that. I went to coworkers, managers, or anyone available. It was uncomfortable at first, asking someone to step in for something that felt so basic. But no one treated it like a burden. They stepped in without hesitation.
That mattered more than I expected.
I worked longer hours than required. I stayed late. I took work home. I pushed myself because I wanted to prove that I belonged there.
Within a few months, I applied for an internal social media role.
The interview was with Ethan Sutter.
It was one of the most exhausting conversations I had ever had.
His voice sat outside my hearing range. Not too high, not too low, but just different enough that I struggled to process it. Every sentence required intense focus. I watched his lips. I filled in gaps. I guessed more than I wanted to. By the end of fifteen minutes, I felt drained.
Hearing people often describe listening as something they simply do. For me, listening has always been an active process. It requires concentration, observation, prediction, and constant adjustment.
At first, I stumbled, talking about Walmart instead of the social media experience I had at Rowan. I caught myself mid-sentence and redirected, but the damage felt done.
A week later, I got the answer.
The position wasn’t available anymore.
But they told me I’d be the first considered when it opened.
Two months later, it did.
This time, I got it.
Training was another adjustment. Nick was easy to follow. Clear, patient, structured. Matt was different. He had a New Hampshire accent that my brain struggled to process. Softer tones, unfamiliar patterns. He taught by doing, moving quickly through on-screen steps.
I had to choose between watching him and taking notes. I couldn’t do both. He noticed. He slowed down. He paused so I could write. It made everything take longer. It made the sessions awkward. But he tried, and that mattered.
Around the same time, the company moved from Mount Laurel to Camden. The transition was challenging, and for a while we worked most of the week remotely while rotating through a temporary office space.
The change altered how we communicated. Training became more complicated, and I had to adapt to a new way of working. But it also gave me more control over my environment and taught me new ways to navigate challenges.
Around that time, I started going to a new hearing clinic in Turnersville. It was another transition layered on top of everything else. My work was changing, my role was changing, and so was the way I navigated my hearing.
Nothing felt stable, yet I was still moving forward.
And for the first time, I wasn’t trying to catch up. I was keeping pace.
Early in my career, I believed hard work and preparation would be enough to overcome any obstacle. I learned that some challenges could not be controlled, but they could be navigated. Change would always bring challenges, but it would also bring new ways to adapt, connect, and grow. I was beginning to understand that my hearing loss was not something I needed to defeat before I could succeed. It was something I would carry with me, something I would constantly adapt to, but it would never be the reason I stopped moving forward.
Shirin Abedinirad, Revision, 2018. Installation art, Lorne, Australia. Presented at the Landfall Lorne Sculpture Biennale, the work takes the form of a ziggurat built from mirrored retro television sets, reflecting ocean, sky, birdlife, and passersby in a living meditation on image, truth, and perception. Echoing George Bernard Shaw’s line, “You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul,” the installation turns the television screen away from mediated illusion and toward what Abedinirad calls “a live movie” of nature, reality, and reflection. Artwork courtesy of featured artist Shirin Abedinirad.
