Updated: Jan. 28, 2015
Originally Published: July 31, 2010
As a freshman in high school, I can still recall the thrill that washed over me during my first pep rally. The atmosphere was electric—so loud and chaotic, yet exhilarating. The entire student body chanting together, stomping on the bleachers, creating a rhythm that made the building vibrate. It was a moment that stirred my spirit.
Similarly, my first experience at a teen night dance club was unforgettable. I remember standing in line, feeling the bass thumping from within, bursting with excitement to join the pulsating crowd. During my college years, I thrived in the bustling world of house parties and nightclubs; I loved the more, the merrier, and the louder.
In those days, noise was synonymous with life and energy. It signaled that something thrilling was happening. But that all changed when I got married in my mid-twenties and welcomed my son, Oliver, into the world.
Suddenly, silence became a rare luxury, like a precious gem. I would pace the house with my crying baby, yearning for even a few moments of tranquility. We lived on a busy street (a classic first-time homebuyer mistake), and just as I gave birth, the county decided to expand the road. For the entirety of Oliver’s first year, our home was filled with the relentless sounds of construction. To add to the chaos, our anxious dog would bark at the slightest disturbance, while our neighbors decided to renovate their garage, starting their hammering at 8 a.m. every day—including weekends.
And let’s not forget Oliver himself—his cries were deafening. I can distinctly remember lying beside him, my heart breaking with each wail, wishing for just a hint of silence.
Fast forward, and now I have two children, along with a gaggle of neighborhood kids frequently racing through our yard, bringing even more noise with their joyous shrieks. My husband, however, seems unfazed by the chaos; perhaps because he spends most of his day outside the house. On weekends, he turns on the news at full blast the moment he wakes up and plays music throughout the day, filling our home with sound. He has a soft spot for 90s reggae, which is a bit much for me.
I’m utterly exhausted by the noise. It frustrates me that when the television or music blares, communication becomes a shouting match. I find myself tilting my head and leaning in just to catch a word, and often having to ask people to repeat themselves multiple times. This only leads to irritation and miscommunication. To top it off, my husband has partial hearing loss in one ear, which adds another layer of difficulty to our conversations amidst the racket.
With kids, daily life is already noisy enough without adding extra volume. So when my husband cranks up the sound, I try to express how overwhelming it is for me. He might see me as controlling or whiny, but honestly, the sensation I get when the noise reaches a certain level feels like pure rage, and it’s not something I can simply breathe away. Even innocent play feels like a cacophony, and sometimes, I sneak off to the bathroom under the guise of needing a break, just to escape the clamor.
If someone had told my younger self that I’d one day dread loud music, I would have laughed. How could I know that I would eventually feel powerless against the noise in my life?
Experiencing the shift from taking silence for granted to cherishing it deeply has truly transformed my perspective. It seems that once I became a parent, my love for noise waned, just like my fondness for flashy shoes and glitter.
Or maybe it’s just that I’ve matured.
For more insights on navigating parenthood and the joys of silence amidst the chaos, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination from NICHD.