Why Sensory Relief Isn’t Just About Quiet

In a waiting room, there’s nowhere to go. I’m mentally tapping an impatient foot. The room is quiet. Too quiet. Every small sound—a paper rustle, a cough down the hall—stands out. It’s the loud sound of silence. Time stretches. I’m listening for my name, or for something to change, and nothing does. That kind of quiet can feel harder than walking down a busy sidewalk. On the sidewalk, there’s noise and movement, but there’s also direction. I’m moving toward something. The sounds pass by and fade. My body falls into rhythm without effort.

At first glance, this doesn’t make much sense. We’re used to thinking that less noise and less movement should feel more calming. But sensory comfort isn’t just about how much stimulation there is. It’s about whether the nervous system can stay oriented. Neuroscience offers a useful way to think about this—not in terms of volume, but in terms of coherence.

The brain is constantly trying to answer a simple question: What’s happening next?

In the waiting room, that question hangs unanswered. On the sidewalk, it’s answered with every step. When that question has an answer—when events unfold in a way that makes sense—perception feels smooth. When it doesn’t,

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