Google describes “Pink Noise” is a type of sound featuring equal energy per octave, characterized by a, deeper, more balanced sound than white noise, often described as a steady, gentle rumble like falling rain, rushing wind, or ocean waves.
Like Pink Tax, I have always associated Pink Noise with the exact opposite – the trainwreck of thoughts that hit you right before you fall asleep. I don’t mean to be the existential crisis or what-if arguments our mind replays when we want to fall asleep. I mean the noise that is specific to womenfolk.
Every night before I fall asleep, I have a few minutes of racing thoughts – of food I have to cook the next day, of the groceries I need to buy, the work that is still pending, the Instagram post I ought to have edited, the book I never got around to completely. I am sure my husband has the same stress if not more, but these thoughts are specific to a woman and mind you we are DINKS (Double Income No Kids).
We had a termite infestation recently, so we stayed in a service apartment for a few days. Thankfully, my husband chose one with a balcony. I can’t explain the liberation I felt while having to make fewer decisions regarding food, to be able to start my day on the balcony with a cup of coffee, and to return home from work without a bag of groceries.
Quick commerce has made life unimaginably easy, but the thoughts persist. The imposter syndrome, the unwelcome chaos, and the palpable pressure that no one actually imposed on me. I wonder if this mental checklist is an XX thing, a genetic code embedded into our DNA that quietly installs when you start running a household. No ceremony, no consent form, just the humdrum of a background app that never closes.
What has changed from our mother’s times then? Even as I write this, my mind feels compelled to add a disclaimer about my husband being a very hands-on, supportive spouse. Like I am ashamed to have these feelings even when I come from a place of comfort and privilege. What fascinates me is that the noise isn’t dramatic. No grand tragedies. No cinematic breakdowns. Just administrative clutter. The kind that doesn’t qualify as stress but quietly eats into your brain. Balcony mornings feel illegal. Pausing seems criminal. Coffee tasted different when it wasn’t accompanied by a running to-do list. Slow mornings mean missing out on quality movie-watching time with husband to be able to wake up at 5AM. I miss taking myself on dates, so much.
The mandatory staycation at the service apartment did not solve my life. I did not come back with an epiphany about leading a more balanced life. Maybe pink noise for women is not the loud existential dread we joke about. It’s the susurrus of responsibility that never fully switches off.
My husband, despite being a doctor, is a smoker. He’s particular about his smokes; it’s rarely social. Sometimes doomscrolling follows him like a persistent shadow, other times he’s listening to an AutoCar review of the same car in another color; but most often than not, it’s just him and that cigarette. So maybe, I ought to take a leaf from his book and step onto a metaphorical balcony and rest the mind in something softer than obligation or, better, nothing at all.
Tags: Married life, Mental load, millennialsMillennials are used to unplugging a device and plugging it back in after a few minutes to get their gadgets working again. How did we forget to do that to ourselves?