**“Hear What?” — When the World Says It’s Quiet But My Brain Says Otherwise

“Hear What?” — When the World Says It’s Quiet But My Brain Says Otherwise

“Why are you up so early?” my mom asked this morning, surprised to see me awake before my usual time.

I stared at her, exhausted and on edge. “Don’t you hear that?” I said.

She paused. “Hear what?”

And just like that, I felt like I was losing my mind.

Because I *did* hear something—something loud, vibrating, piercing. The never-ending song of a cicada right outside my bedroom window. A sound that might register to others as background noise, if they notice it at all. But to me? It was like a siren made of static and bone. The frequency cut through my walls, my thoughts, and my ability to rest. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t block it out. And no one else could even hear it.

Being autistic means my sensory world is cranked to a volume most people don’t notice. It means I hear lights hum, electricity buzz, and insects scream. It means that while others sleep peacefully through summer sounds, I’m curled up under a weighted blanket, rocking in frustration, praying for the birds to come back and eat the noise away.

When someone says “hear what?” it stings—not just because they can’t hear it, but because they don’t *understand* what it’s like to hear it and not be able to turn it off. It makes me question myself. Am I overreacting? Am I broken? Am I just being dramatic?

But the truth is: I’m not broken. My brain is just different. And it’s doing exactly what it was built to do—notice things. A lot of things. All at once. All the time.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve felt the same way—if the world calls it “quiet” but your brain won’t stop screaming—you’re not alone. Your sensory experience is valid. Your overwhelm is real. And it’s okay to need help, earplugs, noise machines, or to just vent like I am now.

To the rest of the world: sometimes “background noise” is the main character in our sensory stories. Please don’t dismiss it just because you don’t hear it.

—Caleb
Autistic Fighter, Sound-Worn Warrior, and Early-Morning Bug Hater

The world says hush, the world says still,
But I hear buzz that climbs and kills.
A song of bone, a scraping thread,
A noise that burrows in my head.

They sip their tea, they go unwind,
While static sharp invades my mind.
They breathe in peace, they say it’s fine—
But I’m unraveling at the spine.

A simple hum, a summer whine,
To them it’s air, to me it’s mine.
It owns my thoughts, it shakes my skin,
It won't let quiet back in.

I beg the birds to come and feed,
To silence what I do not need.
But no one sees this war I fight—
With rib-caged song that steals my night.

And when they say “hear what?” again,
I shrink into my silent pain.
But deep inside, I still believe,
My truth is real. I will not leave.

I hold my ground, though raw and worn,
A fighter made of sound and storm.
So hear me now, if you can’t hear then—
I live in noise that has no end.

If you're wondering how I survive this noise—how I stay grounded when the world gets too loud—I'm working on a follow-up post all about my sensory coping strategies. From weighted blankets and white noise to talking to birds like they're magical warriors (because they kind of are), I’ll be sharing what helps me keep going. Even when no one else hears what I do.

Stay tuned for: “When the Sound Won’t Stop: My Sensory Survival Toolkit”