A rumbling thunderstorm cannot jar me; I sleep soundly.

Sometimes, I can’t hear you. Sometimes, I ask people to repeat themselves. Not hearing my surroundings is merely part of the territory of being hard of hearing.

When I was younger, people called me “hearing impaired.” The term made me feel like an outsider. One dictionary defines “impaired” as “to make worse, less, weaker, damaged.”

Sure, I may not be able to hear you perfectly, but I am not impaired: I am a whole human being. I, along with many other deaf people, prefer “hard of hearing.” And what a difference that makes.

When I was in kindergarten in Illinois, I went to an elementary school for children with disabilities. My teacher, whom I adored with all of my little heart, gave me a gift that I wear to this day. I remember pulling on the giant, soft red T-shirt that had a little boy wearing a hearing aid hugging his teddy bear on it. The fabric cascaded down past my knees. The T-shirt read: “Hearing impaired children are EARresistable.”

Hearing aid technology entered a revolution when I was a kid. Hearing aids shrunk smaller and smaller, but I’m old enough to remember mine when it was about the size of an iPod.

I used to wear a headband with a thin wire running across it, with the wire firmly plugged into a white box with a button for volume control. Each morning my mother would strap my homemade Velcro-hearing aid holder over my shirt, and I’d be ready to scamper around until bedtime.

Although I am 60 percent deaf (as explained to me by several audiologists), I never questioned my deafness growing up. In fact, I found ways to be thankful.

If I needed to hunker down and study for a difficult exam, I simply took off my hearing aid. If the music was extremely noisy at a concert: no problem. A rumbling thunderstorm cannot jar me; I sleep soundly.

On rare occasions, I have witnessed the tragic death of my hearing aid because of a short in the wire. I have gone days without hearing when my hearing aid goes on vacation to a special repair facility. And on these days, it is as if the whole world had been turned down to a loud whisper by a cosmic remote control. Suddenly, I am aware of the vulnerability of being deaf. Again.

Everything that I am used to as a hearing individual gets thrown quickly out the window. Phone calls are strictly limited to close friends and family members. Pressing a phone receiver to the side of the head isn’t exactly attractive or helpful, but if it’s the only way to possibly hear the other person, you do what it takes.

And during these times, when I am aid-less, I’d repeatedly say “hello” like a squawking parrot in a louder-than-appropriate voice until someone finally yells back.

The segue from being independent and immersed in the sharp, hearing world into a soft blanket of silence can be harsh. It is like trying to wade into a deep pool. Sooner or later, your feet will not touch the tiles at the bottom. Interacting with people can call for a Herculean effort. I realize that I need to pay more attention and ask for understanding.

And then, gradual acceptance of not being able to hear arises. Responsibilities shift, time to read and walk instead of plopping in front of the television screen come frequently.

Once upon a time, I could hear. Now, I can only hear the muted sounds of voices and traffic. I’ve become more aware of the physical world by observing body language and facial expressions when my hearing aid was being fixed at a faraway factory.

But my hearing aid always gets back to me a few days later. When I turn it on, I feel like crying. Thankfulness engulfs me. I am allowed to maneuver through the daily activities without needing to clarify my situation to people.

But I also miss my silent reverie — not many people are able to transition from hearing to muted like that. Like a television set.

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