Auditory Processing Disorder: Learning to Understand How I Hear the World

For me, it started in school.

Not because I wasn’t listening—but because my brain was trying to make sense of what it heard. I remember being in grade seven or eight and struggling to understand instructions. I cared. I wanted to do well. But the words didn’t always land the way they were supposed to.

My brain would take pieces of what I heard and start filling in the gaps with its own story. It wasn’t that I wasn’t paying attention—it was that the information wasn’t processing clearly. Visual representation was so much easier for me. Hands-on tasks helped my brain settle in a way listening alone didn’t.

So I adapted.

I put my head down. I focused on doing rather than listening. Not because I was disengaged—but because it was the only way I could stay regulated when instructions felt incomplete or overwhelming.

How It Looked vs. What Was Actually Happening

From the outside, teachers and peers often thought I was dissociating or not very social. Sometimes people took it personally. What they didn’t see was how overloaded my brain was.

When I hear, I hear everything—like a giant funnel. Sounds don’t come in neatly prioritized. They arrive all at once. My brain doesn’t automatically filter what matters most, so it tries to pick out key words and piece together meaning afterward. Sometimes I got close to the truth. Sometimes I missed it entirely.

I didn’t know this was happening at the time. I just knew it took an incredible amount of energy to focus on a single sentence—let alone a full conversation—when there was noise around me.

Because I didn’t have the language to explain it, miscommunication became common. With friends. With teachers. With family. Even though I cared deeply and genuinely tried, it rarely looked that way.

What Being Misunderstood Teaches You About Yourself

Over time, I started to believe something was wrong with me.

I thought I wasn’t very intelligent. I believed I wouldn’t be able to carry an intelligent conversation in a room full of people. I didn’t understand how my brain processed information, and I didn’t have the chance to learn outside of traditional systems. That belief followed me into young adulthood.

I remember getting evaluated in school after my sister noticed I was struggling. They determined I had difficulty hearing over other noises and gave me a headset so I could hear the teacher directly. It helped sometimes—but it also singled me out. I felt different. Exposed. Like the kid no one wanted to sit with.

After that year, I chose not to use highlighted supports in high school. Not because I didn’t need help—but because the help didn’t come with understanding. It felt like: we tried something… do you need more help? no? okay, that’s it.

I don’t think I had proper advocacy for my learning and development. And because I didn’t understand what was happening myself, I was left to adapt on my own.

What Auditory Processing Can Feel Like in Real Life

Even now, the experience is subtle—but draining.

Recently, my family was visiting my husband and me. I was sitting in the living room having a conversation with my mom. The room was fairly quiet. Nothing overwhelming.

Then my dad started cleaning dishes in the kitchen. The soft shuffle of plates. The clink of utensils. My brain noticed immediately. It drifted just enough to wonder where things were being put away.

Then my husband turned on the shower. The bathroom fan came on—loud, abrupt, unexpected. Suddenly, my mom’s words felt muffled. I lost my train of thought.

I adjusted instinctively. I turned my body. I angled the ear that processes words better toward her. I focused harder.

Then the kitchen tap turned on.

At that point, my brain was overloaded. Every sound was competing for attention. I felt anxiety creep in—not because of the conversation itself, but because I was worried I might mishear something important.

There was urgency in my body. A need to rush the conversation—not because I didn’t care, but because my nervous system wanted relief. I wanted the sounds to stop so I could finally exhale.

This is what auditory processing looks like for me.

Not chaos.

Not distraction.

Just constant effort.

Awareness Came Much Later

Real understanding didn’t come until my mid-30s.

It started when my niece was diagnosed with ADHD. My sister noticed patterns in her daughter that mirrored my own childhood and brought the same paperwork from my evaluations to her doctor. This time, the response was different.

They said: This is ADHD.

Not task management issues. Not anxiety. ADHD—especially how it often shows up in women: as mental busyness, overwhelm, and internal noise rather than outward hyperactivity.

That moment changed everything.

I asked my mom for my old paperwork and reread it over and over. I started researching Auditory Processing Disorder. Suddenly, my adaptations made sense. My burnout made sense. The overwhelm I felt when transitioning from remote work to in-person environments made sense.

Office chatter. Footsteps. White noise machines. Call center floors. All of it drained me. My brain was working overtime just to focus on one conversation or one task. Filtering sound took immense effort.

Social Settings Aren't the Problem - The Environment Is

For a long time, I thought I didn’t like social settings.

Bars. Loud restaurants. Networking events. Group gatherings with overlapping conversations. I thought I was antisocial or difficult.

Now I know it’s not that I don’t like people—it’s that many environments aren’t designed for how my brain processes sound.

Typical networking events can be overstimulating nightmares for someone with auditory processing challenges. But in professional settings, that often gets misread as disinterest, lack of engagement, or poor social skills.

The pressure and embarrassment of mishearing someone, responding incorrectly, and replaying the moment afterward creates anxiety—not because of people, but because of misunderstanding.

What I Wish People Understood Sooner

I wish there was more awareness of what auditory processing actually feels like—and how draining it can be.

People like me aren’t avoiding connection. We’re navigating environments that require constant filtering. Asking someone to repeat themselves isn’t an inconvenience—it’s an attempt to stay present. But too often, it’s treated as annoyance.

There are still moments when people walk away or keep conversations surface-level after I ask for clarification. That makes it harder to build deep connections. Harder to be seen. Harder to show up as the strongest version of myself.

We talk about “showing up authentically,” but authenticity is often only welcomed when it fits within neurotypical systems.

As an adult, I’ve learned to control my environment where I can. I understand my triggers. I choose spaces that allow me to be present. I advocate for myself more intentionally. I also accept that some rooms aren’t built for me to excel in.

That isn’t a personal failure.

It’s a design issue.

How to Support Someone with Auditory Processing Disorder

Supporting someone with Auditory Processing Disorder doesn’t require perfection. It requires awareness.

• Reduce background noise when possible

Turn off fans, lower music, or move to quieter spaces for important conversations.

• Be patient with repetition

If someone asks you to repeat yourself, it’s not because they weren’t listening—it’s because their brain needs another pass.

• Allow processing time

Pauses are not disengagement. They’re part of understanding.

• Use visual or written follow-ups

Notes, texts, or visuals help reduce cognitive load and prevent miscommunication.

• Don’t take mishearing personally

Auditory processing differences are not reflections of care or effort.

• Ask what helps

Every neurodivergent experience is different. Listening is the most supportive action.

Closing Words

Understanding how my brain processes sound didn’t suddenly make life easier—but it gave me language, compassion, and agency.

It helped me stop framing my experience as a personal failure and start seeing it as a systems issue—one that many neurodivergent people quietly navigate every day.

Neuro Advantage exists because of stories like this.

Not to fix neurodivergent minds—but to help people understand themselves, advocate for their needs, and design environments where they can actually thrive.

Sometimes the advantage isn’t pushing harder.

It’s finally understanding how you work.