Henry's Story

“Do you know about his ear?” Those were the first words I remember hearing as my son was delivered, and they caught me completely off guard. Before I could process what was being said, he was whisked away by the NICU team to be checked over. Confusion quickly joined the emotional whirlwind of having a newborn.

When I finally got to hold him, I noticed his smaller ear. But in that moment, nothing felt out of the ordinary. When it came time for his newborn hearing screening, someone told us he failed it. I can’t recall every step that followed, but I remember our nurse. She gently shared that a family friend of hers had microtia atresia—and spoke about it with calmness, warmth, and positivity. Her words were the first welcome we received into a community we didn’t even know we’d just joined. I’ll never forget how much that meant; it is ingrained in our story because it didn’t cause panic, just helped us adjust our sails. 

So, we did what many parents do in those early days: We dove headfirst into learning everything we could. We researched microtia, got connected with a microtia clinic right here in Michigan, leaned on each other, and got to know our amazingly happy little boy while adjusting to life as a family of four. 

At eight months old, Henry was fit with a bone conduction device, which opened up a new chapter of learning for our family. The device supported his access to sound and was an important tool for his development—but explaining that to others was often the hardest part. The first question people would ask was usually, “But his other ear hears fine, right?” And that question, no matter how well-intentioned, always carried weight. Because it overlooked the reality that Henry’s hearing device wasn’t just a backup—it was essential to his growth, communication, and sense of self. It was, and still is, a part of who he is.

We began early intervention services, which was an incredible support not only for Henry, but for us as well. There were many visits with our providers that left me feeling drained and questioning if I was doing enough—or doing the right things—to support Henry’s growth and development. I was constantly trying to absorb as much information as I could and apply it immediately, doing everything in my power to help him thrive.  

Early On visits at daycare provided modeling and coaching across multiple environments. The staff in his daycare room began learning signs and using language strategies. They fully embraced the fact that Henry accessed language through multiple modes—his bone conduction device, spoken English, and ASL. By setting that example, his peers followed suit. The classroom community became a space of acceptance and understanding 

As Henry’s third birthday approached, it was time to consider what kind of support he would need moving forward. When we visited the DHH preschool with Henry, we knew almost immediately that it was the right place for him—it was a space where he could be fully supported, both academically and linguistically and the IEP team agreed.  

On his third birthday, his lead daycare teacher walked him to the school’s van and sent him off for his first day at DHH preschool. I’ll admit, it was hard for all of us. The idea of putting my three-year-old on a 30-minute van ride alone made me anxious. But he adjusted quickly, and we could see daily that it was the right decision. 

Henry attended DHH preschool for two years, surrounded by teachers who used both ASL and spoken English, Deaf Language Models, Language Facilitators, and peers who looked like him and shared similar experiences. During this time, we came to understand more about Henry. He likes to use both English and ASL and that his ASL use is powerful: it allows him to fill in gaps when he misses information, and to clearly express his needs, wants, and emotions. He’s endlessly curious, especially about hearing technology and how it works, and he’s eager to keep learning more ASL.  

Kindergarten is just around the corner and as I look back on these past four and a half years, I can’t help but think of all the obstacles Henry’s faced, and how proud I am of his perseverance through every single one, always with a smile on his face. 

To that doctor on day one: Yes, I know about his ear—it’s part of who he is, but it’s not everything. He’s Henry, my smiley boy who loves anything with a motor, is endlessly curious, and gives the best snuggles. His ear, however, has introduced us to an incredible community, one we wouldn't trade for the world.  

One last piece of advice for whoever’s reading this: find your people—the ones who are walking a version of this journey too. They’ll understand you in a way others can’t. Trust your gut. You know your child better than anyone. You’ll notice things others might miss. Keep learning. Keep connecting. These relationships and resources will help you navigate the ups and downs—the moments of grief, the unexpected challenges, the advocacy work that comes without a guidebook. You will face things you weren’t prepared for. But you can do this. You’ll make mistakes—we all do—but stay focused on your connection with your child. That bond is your compass. The rest will fall into place.