What No One Told Me as a Parent Advocate
There’s something no one tells you when you’re the parent of children who have hearing loss.
It’s particularly challenging when they begin the next chapter and leave. Not as much for them, but for their mother.
Perhaps it’s because you’ve spent their entire life advocating and preparing them for this very moment that you never quite allowed yourself to imagine what it would actually feel like when it arrived. You were so focused on getting them there that you didn’t stop to consider what would happen once they no longer needed you in the same way.
For years, your role has been loud, constant, and consuming. You ensured they were heard when the world wasn’t always accessible for them. You learned new languages, navigated medical systems, attended endless meetings, fought for accommodations, and anticipated needs before your child even had words for them. Advocacy wasn’t something you did; it became an integral part of who you were.
So, when your children are ready, capable, confident, and prepared to step into the world, you’re left standing in the quiet space where that constant vigilance once resided. And you realize you don’t quite know how to reorganize yourself. The worry doesn’t disappear; it just has a different purpose without an obvious place for it to go.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s the absolute best and most exciting thing to watch your children grow into people who are ready to untether. Ready to take on dorm life, college life, independence, and self-advocacy. Ready to speak up, problem-solve, and navigate challenges on their own terms.
There’s deep comfort in knowing you helped prepare them slowly and intentionally by gradually handing over responsibility. Teaching them how to ask for what they need. Showing them that their voice matters. Letting them practice strength while you were still close enough to catch them if they fell.
They’ve built a resilience that wasn’t an accident. It was shaped through tiny hearing aids on tiny ears, cochlear implant surgeries, long days of speech therapy, endless audiology appointments, IEP meetings, and moments of both triumph and set-backs. All of these experiences contributed to this.
However, no one in the parenting groups warned me about this aspect.
The letting go. The trusting.
The quiet leap of faith that they’ll be okay, even when things don’t go perfectly, even when they struggle, even when they make mistakes that you can’t fix for them anymore.
It’s exhilarating and challenging, all at once. It’s the future I envisioned back when everything felt uncertain. When success was measured in goals met, milestones achieved.
This upcoming season of parenting looks nothing like what I once imagined. It’s comforting in some ways and heavier in others. It requires me to step back instead of step in, to believe instead of intervene.
Despite these challenges, somehow, it’s everything I ever hoped for.