I’ve always had a strange relationship with sound. For as long as I can remember, if there was a sound in my environment—especially an unpleasant one—that I wasn’t producing and couldn’t control, it would cause some sort of feeling inside me that I couldn’t shake.
The universe decided that I should also be someone who produces more sound than other people. Unknowingly tapping. Humming the same melody in the shower over and over. Making up little songs and being wonderfully unaware that I’m singing them out loud.
I don’t take many photos of important moments, and when I look at photos that exist they rarely take me back. If I hear a recording of the same thing, though, I’m instantly transported. Holding the sea shell does nothing to me; placing it against my ear, everything.
When I first moved into a place of my own, I discovered that the people next door enjoyed occasionally playing very loud music, very late at night. It caused me distress that I’d never felt before. It took over my whole body; fight or flight. I wondered if everyone felt this way.
When we moved to London a strange thing happened: there were so many sounds that any single sound had less of an impact on me. When the world is noisy, what is noise? You begin to notice the quiet, instead—the wonderful, rare, beautiful quiet. Respite from the noise.
New York brought more sounds, but somehow the loudest ones still managed to cut through it all. The house would shake; the windows rattle. I’d put my AirPods in and turn the volume up. Sometimes I’d have to put over-ear headphones on in addition to the in-ear.
California brought some quiet back, and gave me more access to sounds that made me feel good. The wind through the leaves on a hike. The ocean at Point Reyes Lighthouse. It reminded me that I don’t hate sound altogether, I just like some sounds more than others.
On a dog walk last night I decided that I wouldn’t listen to a podcast as I normally might. I’d listen to the world, instead. I really tried to listen. I put my binaural microphones in my ears and recorded the walk so I could listen back to it later. To see if it sounds how it sounded.
I’m listening to it right now, as I type. I hear the sound of traffic as I approach the road; the sound of tires on tarmac that somehow reminds me of a sneaker lifting from a slightly sticky linoleum floor. An occasional interruption when someone hits one of the many potholes.
“Yellow lights are flashing,” I hear as I press the button to cross the street. For a brief moment, the sound of traffic stops, aside from the whisper of an idling engine. My foot scuffs the ground as I try to get across quickly, dog in tow. Seconds later, my steady footsteps return.
The growing pop, pop, pop of people playing a round of evening pickleball at the courts nearby. A collective “ohhhh” as the ball goes out of play and the popping stops, just for a moment. The gentle clinking of metal on metal from the swinging dog leash as we walk.
Sirens in the distance. Conversation in another language. A burst of saxophone from an open window. The unrelenting chirp of cicadas. The rustling leaves displaced by my dog’s curious nose. The little huffs and sniffs from the same. Everything, everywhere, all at once.
When I first discovered podcasts I fell in love. I could find just the right story, told just the right way, and play it over and over if I wanted to. I’ve played some episodes tens of times because they’re a gift to the ear. A gift to my ear, at least. I couldn’t get enough; I wanted more.
I realized that I could experience emotions through audio stories that I struggled to in real life. I find it difficult to find the right emotion when someone tells me something, but I’ve found just the right ones when listening to every episode of This American Life.
If I need to calm down, get excited, be inspired, or have a cry, I can find the right sound. The right story or soundscape or song—in that order. Hearing people read their work or tell their story moves me. Hearing the natural sounds of the world does the same.
Sound to me is incredibly sacred. I’m a designer, and I think that most people think of design as purely visual, but to me it’s simply being intentional. Designing the sound of my space is more important to me than how it looks; being intentional about sound.
I don’t often talk about this, and I think that’s because it’s complicated to talk about. I’m starting to realize that’s exactly why I should talk about it, though. I’m starting to understand that it’s a big part of me, and should be a bigger part of my work.
The things that cause visceral feelings within us—good or bad—are things that we should pay attention to, I think. Sound is both pleasure and pain for me. It’s the primary way that I experience the world. The sense that’s most sensitive in me specifically.
You’ll probably see me explore this more going forward. To work it into the things that I make—to inspire the things I make, in fact. I hope that I might convey something worthwhile along the way.