Last week, my daughter, Sophie, stood at the podium as the cohort president for her class of future speech-language pathologists at Rocky Mountain University of Health Professions. She spoke at their White Coat Ceremony, and while I’m incredibly proud of all she’s accomplished, one part of her talk especially stayed with me.
“Behind every diagnosis, assessment, and recommendation is a whole person whose priorities, fears, and hopes matter too. We should never become so focused on solving the problem that we forget the person who has to live with the solution.”
I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a better description of healthcare.
Fifteen years ago, I wrote on my blog, “Though I don’t have a speech therapist, Soph often is my best speech therapist.”
I could still say that today.
Sophie’s quote isn’t just something she believes as a future SLP. It’s something she’s lived for years. I’m not just someone who had a brainstem stroke. I’m her mom.
Twenty-two years ago, a brainstem stroke destroyed the pons in my brain. Learning to communicate afterward wasn’t just about pronouncing words—it was about learning to live in a brain that processes the world differently.
One of the changes I rarely talk about has nothing to do with my speech. It’s noise.
Most people’s brains automatically filter sounds without them even realizing it. They tune out the air conditioner. They ignore conversations across the room. They separate one person’s voice from the restaurant chatter. Their brains effortlessly decide what’s important.
Mine doesn’t. Restaurants can become exhausting. Group conversations often feel impossible. Background noise competes with every word someone is trying to say. Instead of joining the conversation, I often end up quietly sitting there because I can’t isolate anyone’s voice well enough to follow along.
I’ve always enjoyed time alone, but since my stroke, I often retreat to my craft room simply because it’s quiet. One-on-one conversations are much easier than groups. My brain has to work so much harder to process competing sounds that noisy environments leave me mentally drained.
For years, I assumed this was simply one more thing I had to accept after my stroke. Then my daughter recommended I try Loop earplugs.
I’ll admit I was skeptical.
When I first tested them at home with the TV, I didn’t notice much difference. My helper/friendAngie suggested that maybe they worked better with actual human voices.
She was right.
After dinner with my family, I texted Sophie:
“The background noise is still there for me, but it’s reduced—I probably hear like a normal person! 😂 At first I thought they weren’t working because I could still hear the background noise. Then I realized I’d actually been involved in every conversation instead of sitting alone at dinner like I usually do. I even heard James…though I couldn’t hear myself respond to him! Haha.”
That realization almost made me cry. I wasn’t hearing perfectly. I was hearing better. & better was enough.
Since then, I’ve started wearing them more often. I wore them to the Austin Rodeo this year, and for the first time, I realized how exhausting the rodeo had always been for me. I’d always thought I enjoyed it—but I also left completely drained. With the earplugs, I didn’t just survive the experience – I actually enjoyed it.
This summer, before going to see the Monster Truck finals & Stadium of Fire—a huge concert (Brad Paisley this year), drone show, and fireworks spectacular—I did some research and decided to try Loop Experience earplugs.
Oh. My. Gosh.
They made the night at least 100 times more enjoyable. The show itself was incredible—I imagine they went all out for America’s 250th birthday—but for the first time I wasn’t spending all my energy trying to process the noise. I could simply enjoy it.
Though it may seem it, this post isn’t about earplugs.
It’s about Sophie’s quote.
Healthcare can become so focused on fixing problems that we forget to ask what life is actually like for the person living with those problems.
Sometimes the biggest victories aren’t found on a swallow study, an MRI, or an assessment.
Sometimes they’re found around a noisy dinner table where you realize you’ve actually been part of the conversation. Sometimes they’re found at a rodeo that no longer leaves you exhausted. And sometimes they’re found at a fireworks show where you’re finally free to focus on the wonder instead of the noise.
That’s why I’m so proud of Soph.
Not because she’s learning anatomy or physiology or how to interpret tests.
I’m proud because she already understands something that can’t really be taught: Behind every diagnosis is a person. And sometimes helping that person simply means helping them enjoy dinner with the people they love.
About a month ago, Soph did a swallow study on me. The clinicians saw aspiration. I saw 22 years of birthdays, motherhood, laughter, church talks, rodeos, and dinners with my family. They weren’t wrong about what they saw—but their findings weren’t the whole story. Sophie’s assessment made that clear, & while she makes suggestions, she knows that some things will not work for me.
Sophie’s quote at her white coat ceremony is what she lives. She knows that both matter: the diagnosis AND the person…and I’m grateful she’s becoming the kind of clinician who never forgets that behind every diagnosis is a whole person. The world needs more healthcare professionals like that.
