Turn the World Down: Listening to My Daughter Differently

A mother’s perspective on hearing differences, music, and the meaning of inclusion

By Nikki Blaise | Taunton, Massachusetts

When my daughter Alexa listens to music, I know she may not hear every part of it the way I do. That realization changed something fundamental about the way I think — not only as a songwriter, but as her mother. I used to think that sharing a song meant sharing the same experience. Now I understand that two people can stand side by side, listen to the same recording, and take away very different sounds.

I first noticed something when Alexa was little, years before she received her diagnosis. Police cars and ambulances would pass us with their sirens going, and she often wouldn't turn her head or look toward them.

But at parades, when a fire truck sounded its deep, low horn, she would jump. I couldn't explain the difference then, but I remember thinking that something might be going on with her hearing. It would be a few more years before we had a name for it. That memory has stayed with me: sometimes a child is showing us something long before we understand what we're seeing.

Alexa has high-frequency sensorineural hearing loss. Hearing loss is sometimes imagined as a simple volume dial: everything just sounds quieter. But hearing is more complicated than that. Some sounds may be easier to detect than others, and hearing a voice is not always the same as understanding every word. For a teenager, those differences can show up in classrooms, conversations with friends, busy hallways, and music — places where belonging matters so much.

Like many parents, I have spent a lot of time learning how to advocate for my child. Alexa also navigates other differences that can make the school day demanding. There are meetings, questions, accommodations, and moments when I wonder whether the adults around her fully understand what she needs. But beyond every diagnosis and every document is a girl with interests, feelings, humor, and her own way of moving through the world. I never want those things to be lost in the paperwork.

The more I learned about her hearing, the more I started asking myself a different question: Instead of always expecting Alexa to adapt to what the world gives her, what would happen if I adapted something I was creating for her?

Music felt like the natural place to begin. I am an independent songwriter, and I love building stories through lyrics, emotion, and sound. When I began developing a song called Turn the World Down, I wanted the creative choices to reflect what I was learning from my daughter. I experimented with pulling back the prominence of some higher-frequency elements and bringing forward deeper bass, lower-register sounds, and a strong, steady rhythm — musical elements that can sometimes be felt physically as well as heard.

I was not trying to reproduce exactly what Alexa hears. I could not do that, and I would never claim one song could represent the experience of every person with hearing loss.

Hearing profiles, preferences, listening devices, and experiences are individual. This was something more personal: an attempt to meet my daughter partway, using the language I know best.

That distinction matters to me. I do not want a song about hearing differences to suggest that people who are deaf or hard of hearing are missing the same things, or that there is only one correct way to enjoy music. The point was to become more curious, more thoughtful, and more willing to make room for another person's experience. It made me pay attention to what I had overlooked.

It also made me think about the everyday meaning of inclusion. We often tell children to speak up, keep up, fit in, or find a way to manage. Sometimes they do all of that, and it takes an enormous amount of energy that no one else sees. What if more of us asked whether the environment itself could change? What if the first response to a difference was curiosity instead of an assumption?

At school, inclusion can mean much more than having a support written into a plan. It means the people working with a child know the plan, understand why it matters, and put it into practice consistently. It means recognizing that a child may appear to be following along while missing parts of a conversation. It means making space for friendships and participation, not merely getting through the academic day. And it means asking the child what helps, rather than assuming adults already have every answer.

As Alexa gets older, I am increasingly aware that she deserves to be heard in decisions about her own life. I can speak as her mother, but I cannot speak for every part of her experience. I want her to know that her perspective matters, that needing an adjustment is not asking for too much, and that she should never have to make herself smaller to make other people comfortable.

Turn the World Down began as a creative experiment. It became a reminder that love is not only about saying, 'I understand.' Sometimes it is about admitting that you do not fully understand yet — and then doing the work to listen, learn, and change what you can.

My hope in sharing our story is that another parent, educator, musician, or young person might hear a simple invitation in it: Pay attention to the differences you cannot immediately see. Ask better questions. Be willing to adjust. Not every child experiences the world the same way, and that does not mean the child is the problem.

I cannot turn down every difficult part of the world for my daughter. But I can keep trying to make her corner of it a little more welcoming. And sometimes, for us, that starts with a song.