How a Concussion Affected My Misophonia
The Accident That Affected My Brain
A few weeks ago, I was in a car accident. My Jeep Wrangler was T-boned by a driver who failed to observe a stop sign. Thankfully, I walked away with only a mild concussion—but the aftereffects were more complicated than I expected.
The usual concussion symptoms hit me quickly: headaches, light sensitivity, fatigue, and brain fog. But then something else crept in. Something I hadn’t felt this intensely in years—my misophonia.
What Is Misophonia, and Why Did It Flare Up?
For those unfamiliar, misophonia is a neurological condition where certain sounds—like chewing, slurping, or repetitive tapping—can cause disproportionate emotional reactions: irritation, anxiety, even rage. I’ve dealt with it for most of my life. Over time, I developed tools and strategies to manage it, and I’ve lived relatively symptom-free for a while now.
But this accident shifted something. It felt like the buffer I’d built over the years—the internal defenses I use to manage those sounds—were suddenly gone.
A Trigger I Didn’t See Coming
Not long after the accident, I was in my family’s living and dining area. My uncle was there, eating something—I can’t even remember what—but I remember the sounds. Every bite, every chew, every subtle noise cut through me. I found myself fixating on it.
It wasn’t just annoying—it was disruptive. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t relax. I was in my own internal storm.
What made this moment particularly strange is that my uncle has known me my whole life. He knows about my condition. And yet, while we sat there talking, I was in full-blown emotional management mode—and he had no idea.
Three Levels of Self-Control at Work
In that moment, I was operating on three levels:
Monitoring my emotions so I wouldn’t spiral.
Monitoring my reactions so I didn’t seem agitated.
Monitoring my behavior so I could continue the conversation without withdrawing or snapping.
It felt like I was juggling all of it at once, with limited mental bandwidth—thanks to the concussion. Old me would have left the room with my fingers in my ears, or worse, had a meltdown. But this time? I stayed.
A Quiet, Unexpected Win
This moment wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. But it was also a clear marker of progress. I didn’t run. I didn’t lash out. I didn’t shut down.
Instead, I let the moment pass. I managed. I endured. And I gave myself credit for it.
It may sound like a small thing to others, but for me, it’s huge.
Healing Isn’t Always Loud
What this experience reminded me is that healing doesn’t always look like big, obvious victories. Sometimes, it’s subtle. It’s invisible. It’s staying in the room. It’s keeping your cool. It’s carrying on a conversation while your nervous system is flaring in the background—and still choosing not to flee.
Final Thoughts: Redefining What Progress Looks Like
Recovery, whether from a concussion or a lifelong condition like misophonia, isn’t always obvious. There are no trophies for staying calm when your brain is screaming, or for staying present when your instincts say to run.
But those quiet moments matter.
They’re not dramatic, and they might go unnoticed by everyone around you—but they’re meaningful. Choosing to stay. Choosing to breathe. Choosing not to let a trigger take over. That’s real progress.
So if you’re going through something similar—if your body or mind is reacting in ways you wish it wouldn’t—know this: you’re not failing just because it’s hard. Sometimes, just staying in the moment is a win.
And that win is enough.