The Sound of Control: How Noise, Silence, and Phone Addiction Mirror Trauma

From notification pings to office silence, how everyday sounds trigger deep-seated responses—and what we can do to break free.

Photo by Paul Hanaoka on Unsplash

A week ago, I wrote about phone addiction, fully acknowledging that I am, without a doubt, addicted to this rectangular box. I decided to conduct a small experiment—putting specific times of my day under the microscope to track how often I felt the urge to check my phone. The goal was simple: write down how many times I instinctively reached for it within one hour. Here are my results.

You might want to try this too.

Day 1 – 9:00 AM (Morning):
I felt the urge to check my phone 23 times. The sound of notification bells made me jump and intensified the impulse.

Day 2 – 9:00 PM (Evening, watching a detective movie):
Tea in hand, phone on the table in front of me. Despite being engrossed in the film, my hand reached for the phone 21 times.

Day 3 – Coffee shop:
Surrounded by noise, a book and a journal in front of me as always. Yet, my hand went for the phone 17 times.

Day 4 – Sunday, 8:00 AM (Just woke up):
Within one hour, I reached for my phone 15 times.

Day 5 – Sunday, midday (Journaling):
The notification bell was going mad. I grabbed my phone 25 times.

Day 6 – Midday, 12:00 PM (Disabled notification sounds):
Finally enjoying the peace. The jumpy feeling was fading. Still, my hand went for the phone 17 times.

Day 7 – 5:00 PM (Watching a talk on abusive relationships):
I reached for my phone 20 times.

On average, almost every three minutes, my brain nudged me: Check your phone. And my hand, as if on autopilot, obeyed.

Notification sounds are not only notification sounds

What stood out the most? The moment I disabled the notification sounds, I felt better. The absence of that relentless pingfelt almost magical. It took me two days to silence them all—just when I thought I had done it, another app would chime. But I persisted. And in the end, it worked.

The truth is, every time that ping echoed through the air, I jumped out of my skin. It wasn’t just a simple reaction—it was a full-body jolt, a reflex conditioned over time. Like Pavlov’s dog, I instinctively reached for my phone. But it wasn’t just about habit; that sound was a trigger, pulling me back into trauma-laden moments from my past.

If you grew up in a household where slamming doors were a daily occurrence, if you lived in an environment where you had to be hyper-vigilant—like a ninja, but without the training—always bracing for the next unpredictable outburst, then you know the power of noise. Sounds don’t just exist; they invade. They push you into a heightened state of alertness, yanking your nervous system into fight-or-flight mode before you even have a chance to rationalise it.

SILENCE CAN BE TERRIFYING

But here’s the paradox: silence can be just as terrifying. This same pattern plays out in workplaces where an unnatural hush is imposed by managers who thrive on control. It’s that heavy, oppressive quiet, thick with unspoken rules, unspoken tension. In such places, even the screech of a chair or the sudden shuffle of papers can send a trauma survivor into a spiral of fear. It’s the silence before the storm—the kind that carries shadows of past harm, the kind that makes your skin crawl because you know something is coming, even if you don’t know when.

For trauma survivors, these environments aren’t just uncomfortable—they’re retraumatizing. They mirror the unpredictability of a chaotic home, where safety was never guaranteed. And for some, workplaces like these aren’t a continuation of past wounds; they’re where trauma begins.

Because sometimes, the absence of sound can be just as haunting as the presence of it.

Sound is powerful

While working in that office, I dreaded the hissing sound the owner made as he crossed the large room where a few of us sat, trying to focus. That sound alone was enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My breathing turned rapid, like the frantic wings of a hummingbird, my heart pounding against my ribs.

His office was within that same open space, a constant, looming presence. The hissing would stop the moment he reached his chair—only to be replaced by an even more jarring sound. A heavy, forceful thud as his body collapsed into the seat, like a sack of bricks hitting metal. The impact sent a sharp, metallic echo through the room, a sound as threatening as it was inescapable.

A few lessons

What started as an experiment to track my phone habits uncovered something much deeper. The way my body reacts to a simple notification ping is the same way it once reacted to slamming doors, sharp voices, and looming threats. Sound has power—it can soothe or startle, heal or harm. And for those of us shaped by trauma, our nervous systems don’t always distinguish between a past danger and a harmless ringtone.

Disabling notifications was my first step toward breaking the cycle. It was a small act, but it created space—space to breathe, space to think, space to choose whether or not to reach for my phone.

Maybe the challenge isn’t just about reducing screen time. Maybe it’s about learning to recognize the invisible forces that keep us hooked—not just to our phones, but to patterns of fear, hyper-vigilance, and reactivity.

If you’ve ever felt trapped by the constant pull of your phone—or by the weight of noise and silence in your life—maybe it’s time to ask yourself: What would it feel like to take back control?

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