I remember a stressful experience during a bicycle commute. It felt like a funny cartoon, but it wasn’t funny at all. I want to share this story to raise awareness and help others understand what it’s like to navigate the world with heightened sensory sensitivities, emotional reactivity and past trauma experience. So, get ready for an exciting adventure!

It was a typical sunny morning, not even at rush hour, and I was on my bicycle, commuting to catch a train. Despite not running late, I already felt the pressure of making it on time. I was like the White Rabbit from ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ who is always worried about being late. I had no idea that a series of surprises would turn my normal commute into a real-life obstacle course.

The trip was 4 km long. The first 3.5 km went as normal as usual, but as I got closer to the station, I found an unexpected road closure for maintenance. There were no prior warning signs or diversion routes and it was extremely challenging to go through. I had to make a U-turn and take a busier route. It was like the universe was joking around with me, and I was not amused; this change in plans and the unfriendly sensory environment added to my growing stress.

Then I arrived at that intersection with a busy, noisy, and smelly avenue where we have to press a button to ask for permission to cross, which feels like begging for mercy. The wait time was unpredictable, and the noise of car engines and the smell of exhaust fumes were overwhelming. Each second felt like a minute as I anxiously waited, my mind racing with thoughts of catching the train. It was like being stuck in a bad action movie, with loud, fake sound effects everywhere.

While waiting, a frustrated motorist honked not once, but three times because another driver had stopped to let a bus out of its stop. The loud honking violently shocked me. Without thinking, I hit the back of the car to show I was upset. It was the last straw, and I was an inch away from completely losing my self-control. I felt like a character in a cartoon, steam coming out of my ears.

By the time I finally managed to cross the avenue, my heart rate had jumped to 185 bpm, and my legs were so shaky that I could barely stand on my feet when I dismounted the bike. An hour later, I was still feeling a strong knot in my stomach, a leftover from the strong stress I had been through. It was like my body had just run a marathon, but all I did was crossing the street.

Understanding the Impact

This series of events highlights how unexpected changes, sensory overload, and emotional reactivity can significantly impact my well-being. For those of us with neurodivergent traits and/or past experiences of trauma, these situations can be particularly challenging and even trigger meltdowns. It’s like trying to navigate a minefield blindfolded—you never know what’s going to set you off.

If you’re struggling with your daily commutes or similar situations, know that you are not alone.

🎥 Watch the Video:
This short clip translates my sensory experience into visual and audio form. It’s not literal—it’s how my nervous system feels during a moment like this.

When the Noise Hits Too Deep

The sound of honking cars deeply upsets me. Even when it’s distant and buried in background noise, it triggers a jolt: I feel extremely annoyed, anxious, and it creates a conditional threat association. Even barely distinguishable honks hijack my focus.

But when it happens near me, it triggers a fight–flight–freeze or panic response. If a driver honks repeatedly—especially when I’m already stressed or overloaded—it can lead to an unexpected meltdown. Those meltdowns feel more like a nova star explosion than a shaken Coke bottle being opened. I’ve recorded heart rates as high as 185 bpm—higher than what I reach during intense physical activity. My legs become shaky. The stomach tension can last for hours. Other sensory sensitivities may take hours to fill my “bucket,” giving me space to rest—but in this case, it overflows within seconds. I even suspect that the violence of these shocks could trigger cardiac events.

This reaction occurs consistently, in response to specific honking patterns. I’ve observed and tracked it over time. Rationally, I know it’s not directed at me—but my body reacts as if it is. It feels like a direct assault, and I can’t override the response.

The physiological aftermath—tight stomach, shaky legs (like after a marathon), and mental fog—disrupts everything. It interferes with thinking, planning, or even continuing on my way. I’ve even been challenged by authorities during an episode triggered by repeated honking from a motorist. While I never experienced a specific trauma during transportation that could explain this, the pattern is consistent. (I decided not to delete that sentence on purpose after an update.)

After such events, I often smile and nod while screaming inside—pretending that the noise didn’t hurt.

Investigations

I looked into misophonia, but it didn’t seem to match. Commonly described triggers like chewing, ticking clocks, or running water only bother me when persistent—none of them provoke panic or loss of control.

I explored phonophobia, but that didn’t quite fit either. My issue isn’t purely about volume—other loud sounds like motorbikes may trigger strong reactions, but I remain in control.

I also considered auditory–tactile synaesthesia, where certain sounds are physically felt as vibration, pressure, or pain. That description resonated with me at first. The discomfort I feel when I hear idling engines or honking isn’t just emotional—it seems to resonate inside me. By contrast, nature sounds like birdsong feel soft and regulating—almost like a sensory hug. But I only seem to physically feel sounds when they trigger emotion, like feeling the good vibe of a song—so I concluded that it’s not true synaesthesia.

Misophonia is a condition where certain everyday sounds—like chewing, breathing, or tapping—trigger intense emotional reactions such as anger, anxiety, or disgust. It’s not just annoyance—it’s a fight-or-flight response to specific, often repetitive sounds.

Phonophobia is a fear of loud sounds. It’s usually about the volume itself, rather than the emotional or symbolic meaning behind the sound. The response is often fear or panic, but tied to how loud the noise is—not what it represents.

Synaesthesia is a neurological phenomenon where stimulation of one sensory pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory pathway. For example, some people see colours when they hear music or taste shapes when they read words.

Only Dead Ends, What Now?

This doesn’t fit neatly into existing diagnostic categories. But it seems related to a mix of sensory defensiveness, trauma-related threat perception, and emotional dysregulation—likely tied to autism, trauma patterns, or both.

Then I noticed something else. My reaction to distant honking only emerged in recent years—while my panic reactions to close-range honking go much further back. That distinction matters.

Distant honking is particularly hard to manage: noise-cancelling headphones are ineffective, as honks (like sirens) often pierce through. I assume that’s by design—for safety alerts. Soundscapes help, but some honks still break through.

In hindsight, those distant-trigger reactions might be misophonia after all. The trigger is unusual, but the emotional and physiological reactions are textbook.

Amnesia Flashback After 5 Years Link to a Noise Trauma

Earlier, I wrote: “I’ve never experienced a specific trauma…”. But in reality, I didn’t remember one.

During the COVID lockdown, the calmness may have acted as a nervous system reset.

Then came the sensory trauma. After nearly five years of amnesia about the event, I suddenly remembered it—with minute-level precision.

It happened at a train station. A pedestrian, standing on the wrong platform, ran across the rails in front of a stopped train to avoid missing the last departure. The train issued a sustained, extremely loud honk (likely over 125 dB, built to penetrate closed car windows hundreds of metres away). I was just five metres from the source—standing at a closed railway crossing gate. Even with my ears covered, the sound physically hurt. Two days later, my ears still ached. (The pedestrian was denied boarding.)

I strongly suspect this event triggered my misophonia. And now, every exposure to honking brings back that shock in body memory. The anxiety around potential exposure has created a loop—making city navigation, rush hour, and even nature trails near roads feel unsafe.

The timing aligns perfectly: before that event, honking-induced panic was just “bad luck.” Since then, it’s become a fear of exposure.

And… I Don’t Know How to End This One on a Positive Note

This may be the one story I can’t resolve with optimism.
But it’s honest. And maybe that is the most hopeful thing I can offer.