Unexpected Understanding

One of the hardest parts of living with misophonia is deciding when—or if—to speak up in triggering moments. The fear of being misunderstood, dismissed, or even mocked is often enough to keep us misophones quiet, even when we're in distress. But every now and then, being brave pays off in the most unexpected and beautiful ways. This is a story about one of those times.

My husband and I were recently on a trip to London, and one night we found ourselves at our favourite Honky Tonk in Highgate, a place we couldn’t wait to go back to. The vibes were vibing, the margs were what dreams are made of, and we were salivating just thinking about the brisket—honestly, we had been looking forward to this for a long time! We were incredibly content, soaking it all up. Then someone nearby started whistling.

That split-second misophonia reaction hit like a lightning bolt. Before I even registered what I was doing, I’d shot him a dirty look. It wasn’t intentional, it never is, but my nervous system went straight into panic mode.

How long will this go on? Will he keep doing it? Should we leave? Will this night, that we had been looking forward to, end early because of a sound I can’t control my reaction to? It’s like living in a recurring nightmare.

The whistling happened a few more times, and I could feel my chest tightening, panic well and truly setting in. I tried to focus on anything else. I thought I’d distract myself by looking at some of the old posters on the pub wall when he popped outside for a cigarette. I could see him and his friend standing out the front. And something in me said, Go talk to him.

So I did—before my brain could convince me otherwise or my legs turned to jelly.

I walked up and said, “Hi… what I’m about to say might sound a bit weird…”

I told him I have misophonia and ADHD, explained what misophonia is and that whistling is one of my biggest triggers. I explained that I hadn’t meant to be rude shooting him the dirty look, but it had sparked a full-body panic response, and that was the result of my distress.

To my absolute surprise, he smiled and said, “That’s not weird at all!”

He explained that he is also neurodivergent and works with neurodivergent kids.

I lit up and suddenly this huge wave of relief washed over me.

He got it. He absolutely, well and truly got it.

His friend got it too. She said she could completely understand how something like whistling could be overwhelming and triggering for someone. Their kindness and openness completely floored me. It put tears in my eyes.

I told them I felt awful for the dirty look and just wanted to apologise. He said he hadn’t even noticed and that I’d done the right thing by coming to talk to him.

We ended up having a beautiful, heartfelt conversation—sharing a bit about our work, our lives, and how we navigate the world with our spicy, neurodiverse brains. He told me about his work and different initiatives in the UK, how sunflowers are used as a symbol for invisible disabilities (something I hadn’t known!) and showed me an Autism Alert Card that is used in the UK, supported by the Metropolitan Police and transport services. I thought, What an incredible idea.

I also shared how tough misophonia can be not just for me, but for my husband too—how often we’ve had to leave places or abandon plans because of something as small (to others) as a whistle, leg jiggle, or pen click. We went back inside and he introduced himself to my husband and we chatted so openly and honestly considering we are complete strangers.

Here’s the best part: we didn’t have to leave, the rest of the evening was absolute bliss, and the brisket was as mouthwatering as usual!

Before we left, I wrote a little thank-you note on a napkin and included the link to my blog. I wanted him to know how much I appreciated his understanding, his validation, and his willingness to let me be honest without judgement. He told me “Always be brave.” Honestly, what a legend.

For once, I didn’t retreat. I didn’t shrink. I spoke up, and I was met with grace.

That one conversation completely changed the night. It gave me such a boost—not just in confidence, but in hope. A reminder that advocating for yourself isn’t always met with resistance. Sometimes, it opens the door to connection, kindness, and shared understanding.

Living with misophonia often feels isolating, but moments like these remind me that speaking up can build bridges rather than barriers. We may not always know how our words will be received, but there’s power in vulnerability. If you’re living with misophonia, remember—your voice matters. Sometimes, being brave can turn an uncomfortable situation into a meaningful connection.

I walked out of that London pub proud. Not just because the night went perfectly—but because I showed up for myself and maybe others who might not feel so brave. I’ll carry that bravery into the next time. And the next. And the next.