Berthina Kayembe, from Norway, has struggled with hyperacusis for five years. She has written this touching poem, which we are glad to share.

“As a singer and guitarist, it’s been heartbreaking to put my music aside,” Berthina says. “I’ve begun to find a new creative outlet through writing.”

The smallest pot’s lid

I have to remember
how the smallest pot’s lid,
the one I’ve used to boil two eggs each morning,
doesn’t quite fit.
How it slips, clattering
onto the metal grates,
each clang,
a fresh note of pain
on my fragile ears.

I have to relearn
how the world resounds
with my steps,
like a raindrop’s fall,
spreading ripples
across a still lake.

I have to remember
the floorboards that creak,
and how I forget
to remember
when my mind wanders.

Sometimes, I’m surprised
by how my body adjusts—
holding my breath,
bracing for noise,
instead of hearing air
glide through my bones
with each inhale
and exhale,
sound trapped beneath earplugs,
while the endless chorus of tinnitus
fills the remainder
of what I once knew as silence.

Always,
I must remember—
even the smallest moments
bear weight,
calling me
to listen,
to be present
with every movement,
every step.