When You’re Crashing Out, Even Music Gets Hard to Hear

 

I hate that phrase “crashing out.” It feels overused, kinda cringe, and definitely something I never expected to apply to myself. But honestly? Lately, it’s the only way I can describe what I’ve been feeling. Like my mind and body have just hit this wall, and everything around me becomes too loud, too sharp, too exhausting.

And the weird thing is — when I’m in that kind of state, even music becomes hard to listen to.
And that’s the part that always catches me off guard.

Music has always been a comfort for me. A place to hide, a place to breathe, a place to feel something real when everything else feels hollow. But when I’m spiraling or overwhelmed or just mentally fried, suddenly songs don’t hit the way they used to. They don’t soothe me — they just feel like noise.

It’s like my brain can’t process melody anymore.
Like the emotional layer of music becomes too much.
Like every sound is either too loud or too empty or too sharp for my body to handle.

Sometimes I’ll try to put on a favorite album — something I normally love, something that usually helps ground me — and I’ll make it maybe thirty seconds in before I feel myself shutting down. The opening chords hit and instead of comfort, it feels like pressure. Instead of connection, it feels like static.

And it sucks, honestly. Because when you’re crashing out, you WANT the things that comfort you to keep comforting you. You want the familiar things — the playlists that hold your memories, the songs that once saved you, the artists who feel like they’ve been through everything with you — to be there for you. But sometimes your mind is just too flooded for that. Sometimes even your favorite songs feel like too much.

For me, that’s one of the clearest signs that I’m overwhelmed:
When I stop listening to music.
When the silence feels safer.
When I’m too tired to even press play.

I don’t think we talk about this part of emotional burnout enough — how it affects the things we love. How it changes our relationship with art. How it turns pleasure into pressure, even if only temporarily.

Some people lose interest in hobbies.
Some people disconnect from their friends.
Some people numb out completely.
Me?
I lose the ability to listen to music.

Not forever. Not even consistently.
But long enough that it scares me sometimes.

Because music isn’t just background noise — it’s something that holds pieces of me. It’s something I’ve grown up with, something that’s shaped my identity, something that’s been there during both the best and worst moments of my life. And when I can’t listen to it, it feels like losing access to something vital.

I’ve noticed that when I’m in one of those crashes, I gravitate back to music very slowly. First, it’s ambient stuff — wordless, soft, nothing too dramatic. Something that sits in the background without asking anything from me. Then maybe a song or two that I’ve played a hundred times. Something predictable, safe, familiar. Then maybe a whole album if I’m lucky.

It’s like relearning how to hear.
Relearning how to feel sound again.

Eventually, the music starts to land again. The lyrics feel meaningful again. The melodies hit the right emotional spot. The songs start making sense in my body again. And that’s usually when I know I’m coming out the other side of whatever mental spiral I’ve been stuck in.

If you’ve ever been overwhelmed to the point where even your favorite music becomes too much — you’re not alone.
It doesn’t mean you’ve lost your passion.
It doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It doesn’t mean the music is gone for good.

It just means your mind is tired.
Your heart is full.
Your system is overloaded.

And it’s okay to take a break from even the things you love.
It’s okay to sit in silence until you’re ready for sound again.

Because the beautiful thing about music is this:
It waits for you.

It’ll be there when you’re ready to hear it again — gently, slowly, at your own pace.