The Cost of Campus Noise No One Talks About

University life is loud. Residences hum with hallway chatter and slamming doors. Libraries shush but still buzz with keyboard clicks, sniffles, and whispering. Dining halls clang and lecture halls echo with coughs and pen taps. For many students, these are background noises. For others, they’re not just annoying—they’re distressing. The research paper Decreased sound tolerance in a Canadian University Context: Associations with autistic traits, social competence, and gender in an undergraduate sample brings this often-hidden experience into focus.

The study examined decreased sound tolerance—an umbrella term covering conditions like misophonia (intense emotional reactions to specific everyday sounds such as chewing or tapping) and hyperacusis (painful or overwhelming sensitivity to sound volume). These aren’t quirks; they can disrupt studying, sleep, social life, and mental health. Because campuses are sensory-rich environments, the stakes are high. The authors surveyed 2,080 undergraduates at a Canadian university to estimate how common these conditions are and how they relate to autistic traits, social competence (how comfortably people navigate social situations), and gender.

Why does this matter? First, the numbers challenge the idea that sound sensitivity is rare. Second, the patterns suggest that what seems like a “personal issue” is actually a public campus challenge. By connecting sound tolerance to social functioning and identity, this research points to better ways to support students’ health, learning, and belonging—without asking anyone to tough it out in a world that feels too loud.

What 2,080 Students Taught Us About Sound, Stress, and Identity

The survey results were striking. Depending on the screening measure used, clinical misophonia appeared in roughly 12–18% of students, and hyperacusis appeared in about 6–17%. Even at the low end, that’s hundreds of students on a single campus. These conditions were not evenly distributed: both were significantly more prevalent among women than men.

There were also meaningful links to other aspects of student life. The researchers found that higher levels of misophonia and hyperacusis were weakly to moderately positively correlated with autistic traits. In practical terms, students who reported more characteristics commonly associated with autism—such as sensory sensitivity or preference for routine—were also more likely to report decreased sound tolerance. At the same time, misophonia and hyperacusis were weakly to moderately negatively correlated with social competence. Students with more sound sensitivity tended to report more difficulty with social situations.

These findings play out in everyday settings. A student who winces at the squeak of a chair or the sudden hiss of an espresso machine may start avoiding cafés, group study rooms, or crowded lectures. Someone who feels enraged by gum chewing or pen clicking might avoid sitting close to others or skip class altogether if recordings are available. Over time, those protective choices—completely understandable and often necessary—can reduce chances to connect, collaborate, or participate, which can impact both learning and well-being.

Why Sensory Overload Ripples Into Social Life

This study’s patterns echo what psychologists have long observed: our senses and our social worlds are tightly intertwined. For a substantial minority of students, everyday noise can trigger emotional and physiological reactions—anger, anxiety, irritability, or even pain—that make normal environments feel threatening. From a psychological perspective, this looks like a stress response: an innocuous sound becomes a “signal” that the brain treats as urgent. Over time, people may learn to anticipate and avoid triggers—smart in the short term, but isolating in the long term.

The links with autistic traits align with previous research showing that many autistic individuals report heightened sensory sensitivity. Importantly, this study did not diagnose autism; it measured traits that vary across the general population. The positive correlation suggests overlapping experiences: students who notice sensory details more intensely may be more susceptible to decreased sound tolerance. That doesn’t mean sound sensitivity is exclusive to autism—far from it—but it helps explain why certain groups might be more affected by the campus soundscape.

The higher prevalence among women is also notable. Past studies have offered mixed results on gender differences. Several explanations could coexist: biological sensitivity, socialization (women may be more attuned to and willing to report distress), or differences in exposure and coping expectations. The present data do not settle why, but they do underscore who is most likely to be affected—and therefore who might benefit most from accommodations and awareness.

The negative correlation with social competence likely reflects the practical consequences of living with misophonia or hyperacusis in a noisy environment. If group work means enduring mouth sounds, if office hours take place in a bustling hallway, or if residence life never really gets quiet, opting out can feel like the only way to cope. That cycle—noise triggers → avoidance → fewer social reps—can gradually erode confidence and comfort in social situations. Taken together, the findings position decreased sound tolerance not as a niche complaint but as a campus-wide mental health and inclusion issue.

From Classroom to Cafeteria: Making Campus Friendlier for Sensitive Ears

For universities and colleges, these results suggest clear action steps. First, treat decreased sound tolerance as a legitimate accessibility and mental health concern. Simple environmental changes can help: designate quiet zones beyond libraries; add noise-absorbing materials in classrooms; place visual reminders in study areas about minimizing repetitive noises (pen clicking, snack bag crinkling). In lecture halls, instructors can set norms—such as quick stretch breaks to reduce fidgeting—and offer alternative seating (e.g., edges or back rows) for easier exit if needed.

Flexible learning reduces avoidance. Recording lectures, offering live captions, and creating online participation options allow students to engage without enduring distressing sounds. For group work, suggest quiet rooms or structured meeting times in low-traffic spaces. Residence life can establish “quiet windows” and provide low-cost tools like door silencers or white noise machines.

Student health and counseling services can screen for misophonia and hyperacusis when students report stress or social withdrawal. Brief psychoeducation—explaining that intense reactions to sound are recognized conditions—can reduce shame. Skills that help include noise management (custom earplugs, headphones with transparency modes), paced exposure and coping strategies, and communication scripts: “Certain sounds make it hard for me to focus. Could we switch to a quiet space?” Peer education for roommates, study groups, and teaching assistants can normalize these requests.

For workplaces and campus employers, small adjustments matter: quiet workstations, headphones allowed policies, or scheduling options that avoid peak-noise periods. Finally, consider subgroups highlighted in the study: women and students high in autistic traits may benefit from targeted outreach, sensory-friendly events, and connections to neurodiversity resource centers.

Turning Down the Volume, Turning Up Belonging

This research makes a simple but powerful point: on a modern campus, sound is not neutral for everyone. A meaningful portion of students—up to nearly one in five for misophonia—are navigating spaces that can feel hostile to their nervous systems. By linking sound sensitivity with autistic traits, social competence, and gender, the study reframes “noise complaints” as a matter of health, equity, and learning.

The takeaway is both sobering and hopeful. Sobering, because many students are suffering in silence. Hopeful, because the fixes are doable: smarter spaces, flexible teaching, and kinder norms. The next time you plan a class, a meeting, or a study session, ask: what would make this easier for someone with decreased sound tolerance? Turning down the volume on harm can turn up belonging for everyone.

Data in this article is provided by PLOS.

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