【推荐1】When I was 3 years old, I was found to be deaf in my left ear and have a small problem in my right. Being hard of hearing has been difficult, but I've never lived in a state of self-hating sorrow.

Imagine being able to shut out all sounds as you lay your head down to sleep by simply rolling over onto one side. That's my reality when I sleep on my "good ear", and it even makes me feel like a superhero sometimes

People call my deaf side my "bad ear", but when I wear my hearing aid, I have access to a range of features that some other deaf people don't

In cinemas, for example, with one click of a button I can enjoy a whole film as though it were whispered to me from the mouths of the actors.

Having a hearing aid hasn't always felt good, however.

On the first day I got my aid, when I was 8, I took it to school for show-and-tell. As I explained how it worked to my classmates, a boy yelled out, "Aren't those for old men?"

At that moment, I felt different. It took a long time for me to get over that sense of being so unlike my peers.

But it's not just those kids who can make us deaf and hard-of-hearing people feel like burdens.

Every video on social media that lacks subtitles, for example, means an entire community of deaf people is unable to enjoy it.

Completely deaf people are excluded from enjoying many movies too, as subtitles in cinemas are almost impossible to find.

And with hearing aids costing around $2,500 each, it can be hard for many people to afford to be able to listen to the things that others take for granted.

As for me, I can listen to music, enjoy films, and catch conversations—I'm lucky.

I'm deaf, but I can still hear everything. I've been blessed with wonderful life experiences.

【推荐2】My wife and I usually don't keep houseplants. Anything in pots gets either over watered or underwatered. After my diagnosis with glioblastoma—a terminal brain cancer with a prognosis of little more than a year to live—I loved the idea of having something green and alive around us. When my friend Mitch gave me what he said was a lucky bamboo plant in a deep-green pottery bowl, we decided to place the plant in the living room window across from the couch where I spent much of each day.

I told my wife I wanted to care for the plant myself. When it didn't immediately turn yellow or brown or lose all its leaves, I was pleasantly surprised. Tending the plant gave me a sense of accomplishment at a time when I sometimes felt useless. Glioblastoma limited my ability to walk, and the treatment left me fatigued, making it hard for me to accomplish everyday tasks.

As a physician, I was used to being the one who provided care, not the one who received t Since my diagnosis in August 2018, far too often, I had to rely on help from other people. The enormous change left me feeling adrift. Watering the plant, as small an act as it was, connected me to a core part of my old identity and taught me I could still be a caregiver. Plants and people could still depend on me. Soon, it had nearly doubled in height and its leaves were shiny and lush. Both the tree and I were thriving.

Then, mysteriously, it began to show signs of stress. I increased my plant watering, then decreased it. I fed it commercial plant food. No matter what I did, the leaves kept browning and dropping to the floor. “I can't even care for a simple plant!” I yelled. “I'm failing!”

My wife reminded me that we'd seen houseplants die before. She asked me why I was getting so worked up about this particular one. I couldn't shake the feeling that the plant had become a symbol of my own vulnerable health. Identifying with the green and growing plant had offered me solace. Its shriveling leaves, I worried, might signal the recurrence of my brain tumor.

I realized I had wrongly connected my careful nurturing of the plant-something over which I had at least some control—with my own survival-something over which I had no control. When my tumor inevitably returned, it would not be because of any failure on my part—not because I didn't atomize essential oils in my of ice, not because I ate sugar occasionally and certainly not because I failed to keep this plant alive.

As my anxiety lessened, I began to examine online tutorials to help me figure out how to care for my failing plant. Following the instructions, I transplanted the tree to a larger pot, untangling its roots to give it room to grow. When it was back in the sunny window, we both began to thrive again.

【推荐3】From a young age, I would climb up and down for fun. My first introduction to gymnastics was through my older sister Arielle, who used to be a gymnast. She taught me how to do my first cartwheel(侧手翻). By the end of the week, I was teaching myself one-armed cartwheels and my sister said to my mom, “You need to put this kid in gymnastics.”

At about age 9, I realized that I wanted to pursue the Olympic path. I was used to the public eye, but the Olympic stage was different. The Olympics teach you to act in a certain way and to be disciplined(守纪律的). They teach you to be a mature young lady, and you grow up fast.

When I started this journey, I never knew what it actually took to get to the Olympics. I thought it was: Training. I had to quit a normal kind of life for gymnastics, but I didn’t mind. I moved from Virginia Beach to Iowa to get a different coach. I sacrificed my privacy. Gymnastics was what I was going to eat, breathe and sleep with. It takes a lot to be an Olympic athlete. You may have a talent, but the people who work harder than you will overtake you.

Throughout my career, a lot of people have doubted me. When someone tells you that you can’ do it, especially when there are many people, you start to believe it. It took me years to figure out how great I was at gymnastics. Fear held me back when I hurt my leg in 2011, but I told myself that I had a talent and that I was going to use it. I went to the world championships and got a team gold.

I won three gold medals at the London 2012 Olympic Games and the Rio 2016 Olympic Games and helped Team USA win gold at the 2011 and 2015 World Championships. My mom used to say, “Inspire a generation.” It’s one thing when you say it, but I never thought that I would be a pioneer and that people would draw inspiration from my story.

【推荐1】Back in East LA the years passed slowly. The generous man kept to life much as usual—taking evening strolls, whistling rap tunes, answering his door.

One day in particular, his doorbell rang, and there stood a finely dressed young gentleman in a three piece suit. “Uh oh,” the man thought. “Jehovah’s Witness.” But before he could do anything, his guest spoke.

“You’re the rich man, aren’t you?” his guest asked.

“What can I do for you?” the man responded automatically, so accustomed to being asked for things.

“It is not what you can do for me,” answered his guest. “But what you have already done. ”

“What have I done for you?” the man asked in surprise.

“You’ve given me a second chance at life. Why, with your generous gift, I was able to invest the money and pull myself out of my poverty. I no longer wallow in the grime and gutters, but I walk along crowded sidewalks with my head held high. I have you to thank for that. ”

Suddenly, the man recognized his guest. It was the old bum (流浪汉) who’d been lying in the street. The man replied, “What I gave you, you did not ask for. I gave it simply because I saw you there and loved you. I would have given it to anyone in your position.”

“All the more reason to come and thank you,” his guest said.

“But I am rich,” replied the man. “I have many gifts to give. I don’t expect anything in return.”

“Good,” his guest said with a nod. “Because I don’t have anything to offer in return. Whatever I have, you gave to me. All I wanted to do was come and thank you.”

The man stared as his guest reached out and took him into an embrace. It was the same gesture the man had so often offered to those at his door, yet this was the first time someone had offered it back.

Tears filled the man’s eyes as his guest, a lowly bum off the street, held him in the most satisfying embrace he had ever received.