When the film started, my receiver was silent.

That moment is familiar to many people with hearing loss. I adjusted the controls, wondering whether I had done something wrong. I quietly asked others if their receivers were working. They shrugged, unsure. This uncertainty is common. People with hearing loss often do not trust themselves to know whether the problem is the system, their hearing devices, or their own settings. When there is no clear confirmation that assistive listening is active and functioning, effective communication breaks down quietly.

What stands out is how invisible this failure was to everyone else. From the outside, access appeared to be in place. Assistive listening was labeled as available. Yet there was no routine verification as part of setup and no feedback during use. Staff had no clear signal that anything was wrong, and users were left guessing. Over time, that uncertainty leads people to disengage from shared experiences rather than continually advocate or troubleshoot in public.

From a user perspective, technology that supports communication must support staff as well. Systems need simple, built-in ways to confirm that microphones, audio feeds, and assistive listening outputs are working as intended. Relying on memory, informal training, or user self-report is not enough.

Communication does not exist as a single audio feed. It moves through speakers, staff, systems, and listeners. When any link in that chain is weak, access breaks, even in spaces that believe they are inclusive.

The pastor spoke from the ambo using a fixed gooseneck microphone that was positioned too high. His voice was not captured as clearly or as strongly as it could have been, which forced me to strain to follow along and rely more heavily on lip-reading. That level of effort is tiring and distracting, and it pulls attention away from the meaning of the sermon itself.

What stood out was how easily this barrier could have been avoided. No equipment was broken. The system was present and functioning. What was missing was consistent microphone practice and a way for speakers to know, in real time, whether their voice was being picked up effectively. Other parts of the service use head-worn microphones, which provide far more reliable audio. The contrast made clear how much access depends on small, upstream decisions that speakers and staff may not even realize they are making.

Later in the same service, another access issue emerged. Right before the service began, the choir leader removed the hymn numbers from the board and did not replace them. For most of the congregation, this likely made no difference. For me, those visual cues are essential. I often catch only part of what is announced, and the numbers allow me to find my place and understand how the music connects to the message of the day. Without them, I felt disconnected from the meaning that others were receiving with far less effort.

This kind of barrier rarely comes from bad intentions. It reflects gaps in awareness and training about how people with hearing loss actually experience communication, and how much they rely on visual structure to stay oriented and engaged.

Whenever I leave home, I pack what I call my “suitcase” of hearing technology. Inside are my devices, extra batteries, accessory cords, international plug adapters, and even a surge protector. This checklist helps me feel prepared, because I’ve learned the hard way that even the most accessible spaces aren’t always set up for people who are deaf or hard of hearing. For example, many hotel rooms, including “accessible” ones, don’t provide enough outlets to recharge multiple devices overnight. What may look like a small detail can limit independence on the road.

What gives me confidence is knowing I have options and a checklist to keep everything ready. That preparation makes it possible to enjoy the trip instead of worrying about whether I’ll have what I need.

I’m grateful for the progress we’ve made, from better device options to companies that actively listen to our needs. At the same time, I know the work isn’t finished. Sharing stories like mine helps raise awareness, builds understanding, and pushes for solutions.

My travel experiences remind me that tech is only one part of accessibility. The environments we live and travel in matter just as much. Something as basic as making sure there are enough outlets or providing clear visual alerts in public spaces can make a huge difference. These are the kinds of barriers we face daily and the opportunities we want to see addressed.