The morning I lost my voice, I thought it would be a minor inconvenience — a sore throat, maybe a quiet day or two. Nothing I hadn’t survived before. I had forgotten that I was in college now, where when I’m sick, I can’t rely on the comforts and silence of my home. Speaking, something that had always felt like such an effortless task, was more imperative than ever, so I guess it took losing it to understand its value.
At first, though I was annoyed by my throat, I didn’t think too much of it. Maybe this would be a good break to get my head down and study a little, I had thought. But as it turned out, I was grossly underestimating the extent to which language pervades my day-to-day. I felt rude when, after holding a door for someone, they’d thank me and I only had the ability to silently nod back. When people greeted me, I could do nothing more than smile and wave back. I couldn’t answer simple questions about what food I wanted at FFC, or give detailed instructions if someone asked for directions.
These were all small things, but the inconvenience compounded over the few days I couldn’t speak. Doing anything had suddenly gained an extra step and it was all so much more of a chore now. Sometimes I’d point to my throat and gesture that I had lost my voice before engaging with someone. It feels like people often assume that everyone has access to spoken language and these moments began to reveal how I didn’t speak to just talk, but to be understood.
This extended to interacting with my friends too. I found that almost all the thoughts I deemed worth conveying were too complex for nodding and hand gestures, which often left me frustrated. I’d have a joke to crack, a thought to share, but be left struggling to find a way to make people understand. So many notions would be born and die in my head — I had become the ultimate listener, but not by choice. At first I was coerced by my physical inability to make noise, and then just habit as my larynx slowly healed.
Each morning, I’d awake hoping to produce a sound that didn’t sound like it came from an enraged frog. I counted numbers, exclaimed greetings and tried to sing. Slowly, I could notice my throat healing and the range of sounds I could make increasing.
But before I was fully able to talk again, my days were marked by silence. It was surprising how social so many seemingly-mundane aspects of college life can be. I hadn’t noticed, but eating, studying, going to class — they all seemed so much quieter, and made me feel so much more boxed in when I couldn’t talk. I don’t think silence is necessarily a bad thing, but there is something to be said about the uneasy tugging in between your ribs when you’re unable to do the simplest of things. I couldn’t catch up with the people I saw in class or have a conversation over lunch. Instead, a loud silence would build, drawn on by confusion. What can we talk about when one of us can only nod or shake their head? My interactions left me feeling distant, despite all my efforts to be polite.
I wouldn’t want to get sick and lose my voice again. So many things about it made life more rigid and it imposed on me all these constraints. Now, I can finally go up to the counter at the Hopkins Cafe and say what I want to eat or ask my roommate about a homework question I’m stuck on. But I also learned about how important my actual voice is — it can convey manners, help social bonds flourish and accelerate logistical tasks. I’m grateful to those who sat with me on a Tuesday evening in comfortable silence, unbothered by my inability to speak. Though, I wouldn’t want to lose my voice again, I think you should stay silent for a day and see where that gets you.
Jerry Hong is a freshman from Toronto, Canada studying Public Health.
