living loud

On city noise, burnout, and the nervous system

I’ve spent eight years in the City of Angels, and I have to say, since moving here, we’ve been through a pandemic, citywide fires, and deep political turmoil. It’s been a lot for one nervous system to hold.

I’m not even sure we’ve fully processed any of it. People feel more on edge, self-protective and divided than ever. Empathy feels harder to access, and consideration for others often falls by the wayside.

I was a different person when I first moved here, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Working in the entertainment industry was my dream and I made it happen. Then, slowly, I started looking behind the curtain.

There was a lot I didn’t love. The hustle culture. A deep sense of phoniness. People eager to know how you could help them, and if you couldn’t, would be quick to discard you like an apple core they were keen to toss.

And then there’s the noise…

Los Angeles is loud in a way that seeps into your bones over time. The constant traffic, helicopters circling overhead and the sirens that never seem to end. It’s the kind of noise that keeps your body braced, even when there’s nothing technically wrong.

When I first arrived, the diversity, the culture, the sheer mix of people and entertainment thrilled me. It still does. But slowly, over time, the hustle and constant stimulation began to wear on me. I have a lot of respect for those who feel at home in that energy.

I grew up in a rural farming town in Canada. Moving to Toronto in my twenties felt electric and alive. Moving to LA after that felt even bigger, but I didn’t anticipate how living in a city this large would affect my nervous system over the long haul. I think, at my core, I’m still a little country mouse trying to make it in a very big, very loud city.

It took me a while to realize how on edge I’d become too. I started noticing the small things first. How easily I felt irritated. How tired I was before the day had even begun. How my body felt like it was always preparing for the worst-case scenario.

Lately, I’ve been reading about noise pollution and its impact on the body and mind. Research links prolonged exposure to loud environments with sleep disruption, cognitive strain, increased stress and long-term health risks, (such as dementia and heart disease). Los Angeles consistently ranks among one of the loudest cities in the U.S. When an environment keeps your senses on high alert, burnout doesn’t feel like a personal failure, it feels inevitable.

Yes, California is absolutely breathtaking and it will always be my home away from home. The desert, the ocean, the redwoods, the mountains, they’re all here. But they aren’t always accessible day-to-day. My relationship to this city and to my work, has shifted quite significantly.

I find myself longing for quieter neighborhoods, a yard, a dog, and the ability to work without spending hours commuting. I crave roles that allow for focus, care, and sustainability. Work that doesn’t require my nervous system to live in survival mode just to get through the day.

I’m a happier person in nature. I feel more connected to my body, to the earth, to something larger than me. I’m also way more productive. In contrast, constant noise sends me into anxiety spirals where I feel ungrounded and disconnected.

So I’m practicing patience. I can feel change coming, even if I’m not fully there yet. I’ve been turning to sound baths to calm my nervous system, sharing the experience with friends and family, and imagining ways to offer that restful service to a wider community.

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We weren’t meant to be plugged in and switched on all the time. Our environment shapes our capacity far more than we often realize. If you’ve been feeling more irritable, more tired, more on edge than you remember being, it might not be a personal shortcoming. It might be your nervous system responding exactly as it was designed to.

Maybe the work isn’t to toughen up, but to choose softness where we can.

There are many things I love about Los Angeles, and it will always hold a place in my heart. But I’m learning to listen to my body more closely than my ambition.

Less noise doesn’t mean less life. For me, it means more presence, more steadiness and more room to breathe.

And right now, that feels like the kind of success I want to build toward.