I don’t know exactly when it happened. Somewhere in the last couple of years, I went from tolerating the usual everyday noise of kids running around and doing laps in an establishment, stomping their feet while their parents do nothing, music playing a bit too loud, and a crowded room humming with conversation, to being flat-out sensitive to it. Now, I long for dead quiet. It’s as if my whole nervous system has decided it’s had enough of the clatter and wants to retreat to a monastery in Tibet or become a complete recluse.
The list of irritants is growing. Kids screaming and stomping around in restaurants and libraries. Cars blasting music as they roll down the street. People eating like pigs, slurping and chomping with no regard for others. Others talking so loud so they can be heard in the next county. Crowds that once felt lively now feel suffocating. Even background music in stores, which I used to tune out, can grate on me. I catch myself wondering: when did I get this way? Am I turning into the cranky old man yelling, “Get off my lawn,” or is there something deeper going on?
For most of my life, noise was just part of the atmosphere. You dealt with it, maybe rolled your eyes, and moved on. Now, it’s like every sound cuts closer to the bone. I’ve read that as people age, their tolerance for noise can decrease. Our hearing changes, our stress levels compound, and what we once brushed off becomes a trigger. But it feels like more than just age. It feels personal, like my system is begging for peace after years of overstimulation. Interestingly, years ago, before we were all connected, a column in the Globe and Mail addressed how someone actually looked forward to winter. Why? Because everything was quieter. Car windows were rolled up, not down. People on the street were scarce because of the cold, and, yes, people actually seemed to have more common courtesy during the colder months.
The last few years, marked by COVID-19, uncertainty, financial strain, and the endless churn of news (which I don’t indulge in much), have made me crave control. And since I can’t control the big things, I latch onto the small. Noise becomes the intruder I can identify and resent, the thing standing between me and a sense of calm.
And yet, life rarely offers silence. It’s a scarce commodity and is becoming more so all the time. Even campsites have turned into music festivals where several visitors crank the tunes until well past the 11 p.m. curfew on noise. Which means I either have to fight for it or adjust my expectations. It’s likely the latter, and I know the traumatic events I have experienced, one piled on top of another in short order, have definitely made me more sensitive when it comes to noise. Believe me, when you are going through a major adverse event, you crave silence to regroup.
Here’s the other piece: noise isn’t always just about sound. Sometimes, it represents what I dislike in people. Kids shrieking in restaurants? It’s not the sound alone – it’s the parents who don’t step in. Music blaring from cars? It’s the self-absorption of thinking everyone else wants to hear it. People eating with their mouths open, their phones on speakerphone, and their loud conversations (which may in part be due to the foreground music in restaurants now)? It’s a lack of basic respect that I know is gone for good. So, the sensitivity isn’t just to decibels – it’s what the noise says about the world around me.
Crowds once meant energy and togetherness. Now, they can feel like chaos, each voice demanding space in a room that’s already full. Maybe it’s because I’m at a point in life where I value quality over quantity: fewer people, fewer conversations, fewer obligations. More quiet moments, more meaningful interactions, more room to just relax and exist without the noise from the (un) civilized world.
I don’t think I’ll ever love noise again. But I can learn how to live with it. Noise-canceling headphones help. So does walking in nature, where the sounds are gentler. Those sounds don’t irritate me; they soothe me. They remind me that not all noise is bad. Some of it reconnects you to life, rather than draining you.
I’ve also realized I can control more than I thought I could. I can choose where I sit or go. I can avoid peak hours. I can take breaks from crowded environments without feeling guilty about needing space. Most importantly, I can recognize that my sensitivity is a signal, not a flaw. It’s my mind and body saying, “Enough. You need a break. You need peace.”
Strangely, this new sensitivity has made me appreciate silence in a way I never did before. A quiet morning. A still afternoon. Even the brief pause between passing cars. Those moments feel like gifts now, slices of calm in a noisy world.
Maybe that’s the lesson. Noise will always be there: kids talking non-stop, music, crowds, life carrying on. But silence? Silence is precious. And when you finally notice how much you need it, you stop taking it for granted.
John Berkovich Talks 