Students with Misophonia Scholarship

I hate soup. Not the taste - the sound. When I was a kid, my dad ordered me to get over it. He’d say it at breakfast when the cereal crunch made me want to scream, or at dinner when someone’s chewing felt louder than my thoughts. So, I learned to eat alone. In high school, I’d leave class to cry in the bathroom if someone tapped their pencil too long. I’d skip lunch when the cafeteria got too loud with smacking and gum popping. Nobody really got it, they all thought I was dramatic, or rude, or just “sensitive.” So, I believed it too. It took me until college to say the word out loud: misophonia. The first time I told a professor, I was shaking. I asked to sit by the door so I could step out if someone’s pen clicking made me forget how to breathe. He just nodded and said, “Okay, that’s fine.” It was the first time I didn’t feel like I had to apologize for how my brain works. Now, I’m an aerospace engineering student. I build rockets on paper and test tubes in the lab, but my real challenge is the tiny, everyday battle: tapping, slurping, sniffing. Earplugs in every pocket. Extra batteries for my noise-cancelling headphones. I know exactly where the quietest library cubicle is at 2:00 pm. I never planned to be someone who “raises awareness.” But freshman year I posted a late-night rant on my story about misophonia - how it feels like broken glass behind my eyes. I woke up to messages from classmates saying, “Wait. I thought I was the only one.” That same week, I put up a sticky note in the library: “3rd floor cubicles are quieter. Bring headphones. - Someone with misophonia.” A month later, someone wrote under it: “Thank you.” I still have a picture of that note - it’s tiny, but it reminded me that the smallest things help. Since then, I’ve spoken at student panels and gave a TED-style talk on hidden struggles students carry - not just misophonia, but all the invisible things that shape us. It felt terrifying to stand up there and admit something I used to hide. But it felt honest, too. Last semester I started drafting a simple PDF guide for other students with misophonia - the one I wish I’d had: how to email your professor, what headphones block the worst frequencies, how to explain it to your roommate. I’m working with the disability office to see if we can add real language about misophonia to our accessibility page. Most people don’t think it’s a big deal - “So you don’t like chewing sounds, big whoop.” But they don’t know what it’s like to plan your entire day around dodging normal life. They don’t know how heavy a pencil tap can feel when you’re trying to build your future. This scholarship would help me keep going - one less side job, one more hour to finish my degree, one more push to make sure no one else sits alone, thinking they’re just “too sensitive.” I can’t make the world quieter. But maybe I can make it kinder. That’s enough for now.