Summer of Accommodations: Noise Edition

Or why I live in construction earmuffs, a guest post by K.S. Palakovic

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Summer of Accommodations: Noise Edition

Or why I live in construction earmuffs

Guest post by K.S. Palakovic

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It was the fridge that really drove it home.

Sometime around my fifth or sixth apartment, I realized that when the fridge motor cycled off and went silent, I would let out a relieved sigh. My shoulders would come down, and I’d feel an instant sense of relaxation—even if I wasn’t aware I was holding any tension. Even if I hadn’t consciously noticed the fridge was making a sound.

I have noise sensitivity. For most of my life, I didn’t know that was a thing—I believed the people who told me I would get used to the sounds of traffic outside my window (nope), and the professionals who said I needed to convince my brain it wasn’t in danger (not helpful!). Now, I recognize that I fit the picture for a few types of misophonia, and likely an auditory processing issue: fancy terms that mean my brain doesn’t process sound the way other peoples’ do.

When a refrigerator clicks on, or a truck passes by outside, or someone is chewing food near me, I get tense and irritated. If it continues, and I don’t do anything to reduce the sound input, I get overwhelmed and go into either shutdown or meltdown— highly unpleasant for everyone.

It took a long while and a lot of innocent fridges to figure this out. When I first noticed I was having a distress reaction to sounds that didn’t bother other people—and that it wasn’t going away—my first instinct was shame. What was wrong with me? Why was I “letting” things get to me? Was I emotionally immature, or somehow damaged, to feel this upset this easily?

It’s taken years of slowly, tentatively moving through that shame, finding one bit of relief at a time, to learn how to genuinely help myself.

And the biggest change wasn’t getting a diagnosis (I’m still waiting) or buying the right piece of equipment, because nothing is a perfect solution. It was unlearning a core myth about accommodation: the idea that changing my environment would make me weaker, more reliant on something external, and that the real solution was to change myself. But bullying myself into suffering less wasn’t working.

Fortunately, I found things that did. It’s still a journey, but now I’m travelling in the right direction instead of spinning in unhappy circles. In fact, I’ve learned to accommodate my auditory challenges even when they bump up against other physical, social, or mental health needs. Here are a few of my favourite tools and how I use them.

Earplugs, the cheap and cheerful solution

Ah, my first and still beloved noise helpers. The first time I tried earplugs, desperate for sleep in a rowdy college dorm, those little bits of foam brought me such relief that I wrote a sonnet: Ode to Earplugs.

There’s a lot to love about earplugs. They’re inexpensive, inconspicuous, and easy to find at your local pharmacy or hardware store. And they come in different types, like foam and silicone and rigid washable varieties, so you can find something that works for you.

For sleep, I still prefer the disposable foam kind—just like in my dorm days. I use a type specifically made for smaller ears, which lets me wear them longer and more often with less irritation.

Of course, not everyone is okay with the sensation of things in their ears. And sometimes you want other options. Which brings us to one of my favourite possessions: construction earmuffs.

Going industrial: construction earmuffs

I’ve never worked construction in my life. I can barely DIY a screw into a wall. But I have a pair of industrial-grade earmuffs that block out sound, and I adore them.

They’re actually pretty cute—I found a pair that’s white with black details, and if there’s one thing that pleases my neurodivergent brain, it’s matching a personal aesthetic. They mute sound incredibly well, without batteries or cords. They’re quick to pop on and off. They can even be combined with earplugs or in-ear headphones for extra sound isolation. And at a glance, they look a lot like headphones, a more socially accepted audio tool.

But the hardest part of tapping into this accommodation wasn’t finding an attractive pair of industrial noise-blocking earphones: it was getting myself to use them. I first bought them to give my ears an occasional break from earplugs, but I constantly resisted actually putting them on. I knew other people used earplugs—including lots of neurotypical people—but I’d never heard of anyone putting these on in their living room because the air conditioner was too loud. It tapped into all my fears about being different.

It was also challenging not to have them beside me exactly when I needed them. I have ADHD, and when the executive function ain’t functioning, getting up and going to another room—or even across the room—can be an insurmountable barrier. It gets even harder when I’m already feeling overwhelmed—like from too much noise.

So I bought a second pair.

In hindsight, it seems like an obvious solution! But at the time, that extra fifteen dollars felt positively decadent. What if someone found out and judged me? What if those people were right and I really was becoming dependent on something I didn’t truly need?

Slowly, though, by making the earmuffs more accessible to myself, I was able to wear them more and more often. And a remarkable thing happened: I started feeling less shame about it. Those hunks of black and white plastic became a source of happiness, even pride. I showed them to trusted family, then friends, and then colleagues. It turns out I’m a better friend and worker when I accommodate myself!

It’s something I wish I’d known a long time ago—but I know it now.

Headphones for peace, headphones for joy

Long before I realized noise sensitivity might be in the picture, I was working on my social anxiety—something a lot of people with undiagnosed neurodivergence experience. According to the prevailing wisdom, wearing headphones on the bus was an avoidance strategy, a crutch that would worsen anxiety because no one actually needs it.

Now, I recognize the ableism inherent in this kind of sweeping judgement: no amount of exposure will cure someone’s sensory needs. And skipping headphones didn’t help my social anxiety. It just made me wince every time the announcements blared, and I would wonder, again, what was wrong with me.

In contrast, treating my noise-cancelling headphones like something I actually need has gotten me through flights with crying children, endless neighbourhood construction, crowded trains in Japan and Taiwan—peacefully, and with energy to spare. And during a recent hospital stay, sleep headphones helped me get much-needed rest through two weeks of beeping monitors and a roommate who loved loud TV.

That social anxiety advice to avoid headphones was never going to work for me. Noisy environments will always distress me, no matter how brave or stubborn I am. And on top of this, refusing to use headphones takes away the positive side of the noise sensitivity coin: joy.

The right sounds can bring so much pleasure, especially for those of us who are sensitive! Take music—I use it to wake up, to relax, to motivate myself, to feel and express difficult feelings. I even wrote my undergraduate thesis on music cognition. Plus, these days, there are podcasts and audiobooks and guided meditations—all available from the tiny computer in my pocket. I can use nature sounds to unwind, and binaural beats to focus on tasks, no matter what’s going on around me. The world of audio joy is wider than it’s ever been.

And I never would have gotten here if I hadn’t tried the bravest thing of all: accepting the reality of my experience. 

Acceptance paves the way for change

I’ve worked a lot on acceptance for my mental health. It means paying attention to the facts (I don’t like this noise) and letting go of the judgements (there must be something wrong with me). Judgements bring shame, and shame costs a lot of energy that, as a chronically ill person, I don’t have to spare.

In addition, therapy and mindfulness for acceptance have helped me to notice things like noise irritations earlier, when they’re easier to deal with and further from meltdown territory. I use meditation to help lower my stress baseline day to day, because being neurodivergent in a neurotypical world is an inherently stressful experience. I highly recommend finding ways to practice mindfulness that work for you and your unique brain. Fortunately, these days, there’s more awareness than ever about how to adapt mindfulness practices for neurodivergent needs.

But you don’t need to meditate or go to therapy to benefit from acceptance, and you definitely don’t need to accept everything all at once. You don’t need to feel good or even okay about your noise needs to start experimenting with different kinds of noise reduction. Acceptance can look like action—you can do it scared, or worried, or ashamed. It’s okay to feel mixed about it, too—joy at the relief, apprehension about what might come next. Just keep trying things and figuring out what works for you.

For me, accepting and accommodating my noise sensitivity has been unquestionably, wholeheartedly worth it. Every step I’ve taken to lean into what my brain is telling me has brought me closer to contentment. 

I may never get this part of my neurodivergence validated by a doctor or an official system. But I’m no longer waiting to validate my own needs, denying the suffering I experience just because most people don’t experience it. Who does it harm for me to wear earplugs on a subway train? What’s the benefit of trying to draw on an empty social battery if it results in a meltdown that hurts me and the people around me? Why pretend I’m not different when time after time, it doesn't work?

You know what does work? Putting on my construction earmuffs, kicking my feet up, and feeling my body and brain settle into relaxation.

Maybe one day, I’ll live somewhere quieter. Maybe I’ll own the world’s first silent-running fridge! Until then, I’m making my own quiet, and my own peace. I hope you do too.

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Katherine Sarah Palakovic (she/her) is a fitful writer, a loving editor, and a disabled queer princess. She lives in Toronto and talks about the struggle and joy of creating at Writing Through It All.

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Thank you so much for this essay, K.S.! I’m curious to know how people accommodate their own noise sensitivities. What’s working for you these days? What is keeping you from trying out accommodations for noise sensitivity?