Words by Jennifer Tangly // Photo by Hanny Naibaho
For a long time, I thought wellbeing only really cracked when something huge happened. A big crisis, a big loss, something dramatic enough that you couldn’t ignore it. But the truth is, sometimes it slips away much more quietly than that.
In my case, it happened slowly enough that I almost didn’t notice.
In my twenties I went to a lot of concerts. The loud, sweaty kind where you stand too close to the speakers and leave with your ears ringing but your heart full. I loved live music. It felt like oxygen to me. Weeknights, weekends, tiny venues, huge festivals, if there was a band playing, I wanted to be there.
Back then, the ringing in my ears after a show felt almost like a badge of honour. Everyone had it. You’d stumble out onto the street afterwards laughing about how loud it was, how good it was. By the next morning it usually faded, so I never thought much about it.
Except eventually it didn’t fade.
At first it was subtle. A faint ringing that lingered longer than it used to. Certain conversations in busy bars became harder to follow. Music still sounded good, but sometimes a little muddy, like someone had turned the clarity down a notch.
I shrugged it off for years.
It wasn’t until my early thirties that I started to realise something deeper was happening. It wasn’t just my hearing changing, it was my enjoyment of things changing too. I was going to fewer shows, not because I consciously decided to stop, but because they started to feel exhausting. I’d stand in a crowd and feel overwhelmed by the noise instead of thrilled by it.
Even smaller things shifted. I found myself turning music off halfway through a song. I avoided loud restaurants because it was too hard to hear people properly. Sometimes I’d catch myself feeling oddly flat during things I used to love.
For a while I wondered if I was just getting older or more tired. But eventually I realised the problem wasn’t my enthusiasm for life, it was my ears.
When I finally saw an audiologist, the tests confirmed what I had started to suspect: years of loud concerts had taken their toll. I had measurable hearing loss and persistent tinnitus. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to explain why the world had started sounding – and feeling – a little different.
That’s when I learned something I wish I’d known years earlier: hearing health isn’t just about whether you can technically hear sounds. It’s about how connected you feel to the world around you. Conversations, laughter, music, the background hum of life, they all shape our mood more than we realise.
I also started learning more about things like hearing aids and music enjoyment, and how technology and better listening habits can help people reconnect with sound rather than retreat from it.
These days I still go to concerts, but I’m a lot smarter about it. Earplugs live permanently in my bag. I step outside when my ears need a break. And I pay attention to those small moments of joy: the bass line of a song I love, the cheer of a crowd, the feeling of being part of something alive.
Because it turns out wellbeing doesn’t always disappear in a single dramatic moment. Sometimes it fades quietly in the background. And sometimes, with a little care and attention, you can slowly bring it back.
