I woke to the sound of an unfading discordant chime instead of the beeping of my alarm. 

My head resting softly on my pillow, I was suddenly shaken as my internal quietude was taken away. Swiftly, I drew my blanket. It protected me from the cold, but not this noise that continued to pierce through the usual silence of my room. I fought again to retrieve my peace, this time pressing my hands firmly against my ears – but the chime rang on. With a cold jolt of panic, I shot out of bed: there were no chimes in my room. What I heard was the sound of tinnitus sparking from within my head. 

At age thirteen, my sense of silence was stolen, and I was left instead with the unwavering sound of an eerie drone. In my practice room, Saint-Saëns' B minor concerto rang from my violin, and I heard more than his emotions. I heard my own troubles. The persistent C and F of my tinnitus shone above his music, refusing to give up its spotlight to the melodies that I strived to hear. And Beethoven’s Serenade sang from my flute, and his struggle felt like my own: I am a musician, but my ears carry a burden. I chased the serenity of silence that I’d once taken advantage of – the silence that would once fill the rests in my music and in my life. 

But time was indifferent to tinnitus, and life carried on. I stopped waiting for the sound to disappear and began listening to what it was trying to say. Two years and seven months of tinnitus’ fury translated into musical compositions, which I performed at retirement homes for seniors fighting their own invisible battles. Today, I continue to share my music for public audiences, where it serves as a language of healing. In the symphony of life, tinnitus plays the counterpoint: it challenges harmony, but lets every phrase sing with emotion.