Sunny Bee

I vividly remember the first time I clearly heard “Video Killed the Radio Star” after receiving my cochlear implants. It may be one of the first songs I have ever heard. I was born with normal hearing about two weeks after MTV launched in August of 1981. By the time I was implanted at 37, I had lost the lyrics entirely. You can imagine my frustration when, after activation, they were still gone-and the music itself sounded foreign. Still, I am quite stubborn and I refused to quit. For months, I drove around listening to old music that somehow sounded worse than I remembered. Then, one morning, something clicked. I had expected gradual improvement but instead, I woke up and everything sounded clearer. I ran to the car to turn on that song. Then came the tears. I was going to be OK.

My father used to call me “Noisemaker”. It wasn’t exactly a term of endearment. I’ve always been loud, while my dad is very sensitive to sound. I never felt he particularly enjoyed the noises I loved making. My mother was quite the opposite. She stayed home with my sister and me, and music was always playing. She sang and danced around the house, joining in with whatever was on. When I was ten, my parents divorced and my mother moved to Arizona with her boyfriend. Somehow, the noises I so loved making began to feel less welcome. It would be speculation to say my singing reminded my family of my mom, but I never felt my singing was encouraged nor nurtured. I often felt unwelcome. Whether that was anyone’s intention or not, I grew up believing that I was a bad singer. When I began losing my hearing at 13, that belief only deepened. Eventually, I refused to sing in public at all. Still, singing is the only thing I have done every day, mostly in the car and for much of my life, almost always in private.

My hearing loss was unusual and progressive. I was diagnosed around 19, and by the time I received my cochlear implants at 37, I was profoundly deaf. Doctors could only say that it was likely genetic. I now know that my condition is extremely rare: a gene involved in transporting sodium to the nerves in my ear does not function properly. Causing me to lose nerve endings progressively, beginning with the high pitches and moving down the line. It was not going to get better. Phone calls became difficult and then impossible, followed by conversations without visual context. Eventually I could not understand my 5-year-old child and I had a newborn coming. The thought of experiencing that loss again ultimately led me to get implanted.As my hearing improved, so did my quality of life. I could enjoy music again in ways I hadn’t imagined. Even through career setbacks, divorce and financial struggles, music has remained a constant source of joy. 

Then, in my 40’s, I sang for the first time in front of people for real. A good friend invited me to sing at an open mic. I had been intentionally doing things after my divorce that made me uncomfortable, but I can’t adequately describe how nervous I was standing in a bar in Morris, Illinois singing. I also can’t describe the elation that I felt after pushing through the fear. I was hooked. I started going out for karaoke, then began taking it seriously. I took lessons at the Elmhurst School of Rock until I could no longer afford it, but I never stopped working. To be clear, I don’t think I was very good when I started. Since then, I’ve approached singing intentionally, practicing a vocal routine every day, usually in the car. Am I good? I don’t know. But I’m better. I began writing songs and have spent the next few years trying to improve, hoping to find a band and make and bring them to life.

Then, in January of 2026, at 44, I picked up a guitar for the first time. I had avoided playing guitar for years. I took lessons from Marianne Sullivan, a western suburban guitarist and musician that also hosts karaoke. She taught me everything I know on guitar and was able to get me singing and playing at the same time, and I began putting music to my own songs. I have never experienced anything more therapeutic. 3-4 months later I was on a stage at a local open mic playing guitar. I had thrown myself in completely. I hid my singing for most of my life. I spent decades believing I wasn’t any good at it and that my voice was something other people didn’t want to hear. I progressively lost my hearing and feared I had lost access to the music I had loved all my life. Now I can hear it again. And now that I can make music of my own, I refuse to let it go to waste. I don’t know how far this will go. I am sure I have a long way to go as a singer, songwriter, and guitar player. But I’m making music. And I hope that the mere fact that it exists encourages anyone who has ever been told – or simply come to believe - they cannot or should not do something that they love.