It started with a clicking sound. Just faint little pops in my head, like distant bubble wrap. I thought it was nothing—maybe sinuses, maybe stress. But then I noticed the clicks only happened when I moved my eyes. Left. Right. Blink. Click-click.
At first, I kept it to myself. Who do you even tell that to? “Hey, I think I can hear my eyeballs.” Sounds like the start of a bad joke.
But it got worse. I started hearing my heartbeat in my ears constantly—like a drumline that wouldn’t quit. My own voice echoed inside my head like I was yelling through a tunnel. Chewing? Torture. Swallowing? A full-body event. Imagine hearing every shift of your muscles, every blink, every movement inside your skull like it’s hooked up to a speaker.
Turns out, I have something called superior canal dehiscence syndrome. I had never heard of it either. It’s rare—like really rare. Basically, there’s a tiny hole in the bone near my inner ear that messes with how sound travels. My brain hears stuff it’s not supposed to.
I finally got diagnosed after seeing four different doctors who thought I was just anxious or dramatic. One ENT specialist believed me. She tapped gently on the side of my head and said, “You shouldn’t be able to hear that, should you?”
Next thing I knew, I was in a whirlwind of tests, MRIs, and more doctors who all seemed fascinated by my condition. Most of them had never seen it before, and it became clear that it was something I’d have to live with for a while—maybe forever.
Superior Canal Dehiscence Syndrome (SCDS)—a long, complicated name for a condition that made my body feel like it was betraying me. The clicking sound? That was my eyeballs moving inside their sockets. The heartbeat in my ears? It was amplified by the hole in my inner ear. Even chewing or swallowing felt like a production, each movement echoing through my skull, magnified.
The diagnosis, while comforting in its own way (at least now I knew I wasn’t crazy), didn’t fix the problem. I could now put a name to it, but the symptoms didn’t go away. The dizziness, the heightened sound sensitivity, the feeling that my body was constantly out of sync with itself—it all still plagued me.
I started doing what I could to cope. I wore noise-canceling headphones whenever I could, trying to block out the constant drumbeat in my ears. I avoided crowded places where my sensory overload would get too much to bear. But I also realized that my condition made me keenly aware of things I hadn’t noticed before. Little things. The way my breath shifted when I was anxious. The way I could hear every crack of my joints when I stretched.
The oddest part of all this was how in tune I became with my own body. I could feel the way my eyes moved before they even did. I could tell when my heart rate spiked from just the thrum in my ears. It was like I was always aware of what was happening inside my own body, to a point where it became unsettling.
I wasn’t the same person anymore. I felt disconnected from the world in a way that was hard to describe. And that’s when it hit me. I had been so focused on the frustration and discomfort of my condition that I hadn’t stopped to think about the opportunity it gave me—an opportunity to truly understand my own body, my own rhythms, in ways most people never could.
I had always been a busy, distracted person—always rushing, always juggling responsibilities. But now, I couldn’t ignore my body. I had no choice but to listen to it. My heartbeat, my breath, my every movement—they all became an integral part of my daily awareness.
And then, a funny thing happened. As I grew more in tune with my body, I started to notice the subtle rhythms of the world around me. I could hear the rustling of leaves outside, not as background noise, but as distinct, beautiful sounds. I noticed the vibrations in the ground when cars drove by, the way the air felt as it moved through the trees. I could hear the sound of my own thoughts in a way that I had never experienced before.
It was like I was learning to see the world through a different lens, a quieter, more sensitive lens that allowed me to appreciate the little things. The tiny clicks in my head that used to drive me crazy now became a reminder that I was alive, that I could feel the world in ways most people couldn’t.
I started to embrace my condition in a way I never thought possible. I began to see it not as a curse, but as a gift—something that allowed me to connect with the world and with myself in a deeper way. And that’s when I met Emma.
I was sitting in a coffee shop one afternoon, headphones on, trying to block out the sounds around me, when she approached me. She had the same look I once had—a kind of tiredness, a weight in her eyes that spoke of frustration and misunderstanding. She asked if I was okay, and before I could answer, she shared her own story.
Emma had been diagnosed with a similar condition—a much rarer form of SCDS. But unlike me, she hadn’t found peace with it. She struggled daily with the sensations, with the noise, with the isolation.
We began talking about our experiences, comparing symptoms, talking about how we navigated the world in a way no one else could understand. For the first time, I didn’t feel alone. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t some oddity. I had found someone who truly got it.
As we spent more time together, I realized something important—there was strength in vulnerability. Talking about our struggles, our frustrations, was healing in itself. But more than that, we started to help each other in ways we never imagined. I showed Emma how I had learned to embrace my condition, how I had found beauty in the things I once hated. She showed me how to keep pushing through the hardest days, when the noise and the dizziness felt unbearable.
But it wasn’t just about talking. We started going on walks together, feeling the world beneath our feet, listening to the rhythms of the world around us. We shared tips and tricks for managing our condition, from breathing exercises to meditation techniques. Slowly, we started to live our lives with less fear and more acceptance.
And then came the karmic twist.
One evening, after a long walk, I was sitting in my living room, my mind quiet for the first time in days, when I got a message from Emma. She had just received an offer to be part of a research study for a groundbreaking new treatment for SCDS. The treatment was still experimental, but it had shown promise in helping people like us manage our condition.
The twist? The researchers needed a second participant, and they wanted me.
It felt surreal. It was as if everything I had been through—every frustrating click, every unbearable day of sound sensitivity—had led me to this moment. A chance to not just be part of a solution, but to help find one.
The research study was a huge step forward, not just for me, but for the entire community of people suffering from SCDS. I had the chance to make a real difference, to use my experience to help others who were struggling the way I had.
As the treatment process began, I saw gradual improvements. My sensitivity to sound lessened, and while I still heard the occasional click of my eyeballs, it wasn’t as loud, not as distracting. I could feel my body relaxing in a way I hadn’t in years.
But more than that, I had learned the greatest lesson of all. Through all the pain, the frustration, and the confusion, I had learned to trust my body—to listen to it, to understand it, to appreciate the small rhythms of life. And, in turn, I had found a way to make peace with something that once seemed impossible to accept.
If I hadn’t embraced my condition, I never would have met Emma. If I hadn’t reached out to her, I wouldn’t be part of that groundbreaking study today. It was the most unlikely of circumstances that had led to something beautiful—and I couldn’t be more grateful.
So, if you’re facing something difficult in your life right now, remember: sometimes the very thing that seems like a burden is the thing that will lead you to something incredible. Embrace it, learn from it, and know that the twists and turns will eventually take you somewhere you never imagined.
Please share this story if it resonates with you. You never know who might need to hear it. And remember, the journey is never as straight as it seems—but it’s always worth it.
