Imagine if every sound you heard painted a vivid picture in your mind—not just a fleeting image, but intricate shapes, flashes of light, and even cosmic explosions. This is my reality, thanks to a phenomenon called synaesthesia. For me, it’s not just a quirky brain quirk; it’s a superpower that has shaped my life in ways I’m still uncovering. But here’s where it gets controversial: while some see synaesthesia as a gift, others might argue it’s a curse, especially when the world feels like a never-ending symphony of visual noise. Let’s dive in.
Car rides with my partner are a perfect example. He’s an ex-DJ who loves blasting music, but for me, it’s like driving through a kaleidoscope of static images and light bursts. It’s hard to explain, but imagine watching sound waves on a screen—that’s what I see when I hear music. Or picture neurons firing, connecting in a dance of black-and-white shapes, like a space nebula exploding in my mind. It’s beautiful, but it can be overwhelming.
I’m 44 now, but I only discovered I had auditory-visual synaesthesia in my 30s. What I did know early on was my uncanny knack for languages. In school, I picked up Japanese effortlessly because I could literally see the words and sounds as images, making them impossible to forget. Later, at university, Spanish, Korean, and Indonesian felt like second nature. I even joined the Air Force as an intelligence officer, acing a language aptitude test without breaking a sweat. The testers were stunned—no one had ever scored perfectly before. But for me, it was just… easy. And this is the part most people miss: synaesthesia isn’t just about seeing colors; it’s about how the brain rewires itself to process information in extraordinary ways.
I first heard the term ‘synaesthesia’ after leaving the military, while studying speech pathology and autism spectrum disorder. I read about how some people experience one sense triggering another—like tasting shapes or seeing sounds. But it wasn’t until I started working on speech-to-text projects that I connected the dots. I joined a Facebook group where others described seeing sounds as colors, but mine were always black-and-white shapes—except for high-frequency sounds, which burst into a spectrum of whites, yellows, oranges, and reds. This unique ability even helped me pass hearing tests at absurdly low decibels, as I could see the pure tones as colored flashes.
My synaesthesia led me to some incredible opportunities. While transcribing Indigenous creole languages for Wollongong University, I was recruited by Apple’s head linguist to work on a top-secret project in Japan. On day one, I learned it was Siri. Over 90 days, I sat in on recordings of Australian voices, shaping the future of speech-to-text technology. Since then, I’ve worked on projects for Tom Tom GPS, Bank of America, and now, as a speech pathologist, I help children and adults improve their communication and swallowing abilities.
But here’s the bold claim: I’m not worried about AI replacing me. Language is too nuanced, too human, for robots to fully grasp. Take the Western Sydney Lebanese accent, for example—I can dissect it instantly, but I wouldn’t trust AI to capture its subtleties. Synaesthesia gives me an edge that machines can’t replicate.
Of course, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. I rely on earplugs to block out the constant noise, and my brain rarely gets a moment of quiet. Running to music is my escape—the only time the visual symphony stops, and my mind finds peace. Yet, I wouldn’t trade my synaesthesia for anything. It’s my ikigai, my reason for being. Even if I lost my sight or limbs, losing my ability to work with words and sounds would be devastating.
So, here’s the question I’ll leave you with: If you could experience the world through a completely different sensory lens, would you? And if so, what would you give up in return? Let’s discuss in the comments—I’m curious to hear your thoughts!
