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Misophonia has been the single most defining force in my life—shaping my personality, my mental health, my very ability to exist in the world. It has marred every part of my life, leaving scars that no one else can see. I remember the exact night my symptoms began as a child. From that moment on, I have suffered deeply every single day. 

It has brought me to my knees, reduced me to tears more times than I can count. In my darkest moments, I have even prayed to lose my hearing, desperate for relief from the torment. Because that’s what it feels like—torture. I am not exaggerating when I say that my brain interprets these sounds as pain, as if each trigger is an assault on my nervous system, setting my body on fire from the inside out. 

Only now is misophonia beginning to gain public recognition, yet even with that, so few people truly understand. That has meant years of suffering in silence, forcing myself to function, to appear "normal," all while feeling like I am being pushed to the very edge of my sanity by internal suffering. I ache for something as simple as sharing a meal with my loved ones without feeling my blood boil with anguish. I long to exist in the presence of others without feeling as though I am being torn apart by something as small as a chewing sound or a repetitive noise.

My beautiful child with special needs, he finds comfort in oral stimming—sucking, smacking his lips—sounds that trigger my misophonia. He does this when he is at his happiest, and I have held him in my arms, tears streaming down my face, wishing my ears would just stop working. Because his happiness, his well-being, will always mean more to me than my own comfort. I would never wish for him to stop something that soothes him, even as my own body reacts as if I am being shattered from the inside. 

At school, misophonia stole my ability to think. The sound of gum chewing, pen clicking, crinkling paper—it would paralyze my brain, drowning out my thoughts with sheer, unbearable distress. I turned in a test with a zero once because I physically couldn’t focus through the sound of my teacher eating chips in a silent room. I told the school nurse I had an ear infection just to escape, because I had no other words for what I was experiencing. I felt crazy. I couldn't focus or even think when there were triggering sounds in the classroom. I began to dread school and specific classes where I couldn't escape from the triggers. Every single day, I wonder—who would I be without this? What would my life have looked like if my brain didn’t process sound as suffering? Would I be freer, happier, lighter? I hope one day to know.