Yoga Class Without Hearing Aids

When I Couldn’t Hear the Instructions — and Chose to Stay Anyway

That day started gently.

I woke up early, had coffee outside, and spent the whole morning writing and reading in a café. One of those mornings that feels nourishing and spacious.

At some point, my hearing aid batteries ran out. I placed them back in their box and kept going.

Later, at home, I studied English pronunciation, applied for jobs, and got ready for my yoga class at 6:15 pm.

That’s when I realised I had forgotten to recharge my hearing aids.

I paused.

And felt the familiar fork in the road.

I could stay home and avoid the stress.
Or I could go anyway and surrender to the experience, without expectations.

I chose to go.

I arrived early and placed my mat close to the teacher, as I always do.

Very quickly, I realised something confronting: I couldn’t understand a single word she was saying.

Not one.

I could hear voices, but not meaning.

Occasionally, a familiar phrase landed — downward facing dog, maybe one or two others — but most instructions didn’t reach me.

So I did something different.

I followed the flow.
I watched the teacher.
I observed the people around me.

I listened with my body instead of my ears.

Most importantly, I gave myself permission not to understand.

The moment I released the pressure to “get it right,” something softened.

My breath slowed.
My body relaxed.

And surprisingly, the class became enjoyable.

I stayed present.
I finished the class.
I trusted myself.

There was no collapse into stress — just curiosity, awareness, and a quiet sense of I can be here like this.

At the end of the class, I shared this experience with the teacher.

She looked at me, smiled, and simply said:

“You did well. Don’t worry.”

No fixing.
No over-explaining.

Just kindness.

That moment stayed with me.

This experience reminded me that so much of being hard of hearing isn’t only about access — it’s about pressure.

The pressure to keep up.
To compensate.
To perform understanding.

When that pressure lifts, something else becomes available.

Presence.

This isn’t about romanticising barriers.
Access matters.
Inclusion matters.

But healing also happens when we give ourselves permission to participate differently — without shame.

If you are hard of hearing, Deaf, neurodivergent, or living with invisible challenges, I want you to know this:

You don’t have to understand everything to belong.
You don’t have to be perfect to participate.

Sometimes, doing well simply means showing up.

An invitation

Have you ever stayed when it would have been easier to leave?

Have you ever surprised yourself by coping better than expected?

If this reflection resonated with you, I invite you to share your experience — in comments, messages, or within the Hearing Bridge Movement.

Your story matters.
And it might be the bridge someone else needs today.

Warmly,
Natasha Lourenço
Founder & Ambassador, The Hearing Bridge Movement