It’s hard to ignore the sounds that now fill our buses, trains, and trams — TikTok videos blaring, FaceTime calls echoing from a row behind, cartoons on tablets holding toddlers’ attention. For many of us, commuting once promised a little pocket of calm in a frenzied day. Headphones were more than just a personal preference — they were part of an unspoken agreement, a subtle acknowledgment of the shared space we all inhabit. But lately, that quiet pact appears to be unraveling.
Over the past few years, public settings like trains and buses have become increasingly infused with audio that once would have been carefully cordoned off by earbuds. Whether it’s music, games, or entire movies, the content is no longer just for the individual — it’s broadcasted for all within earshot. This change has left many feeling frustrated, disrupted, and even powerless to reclaim a sense of serenity during transit. And if you’re among those finding public audio intrusion unsettling, you’re absolutely not alone.
It seems that the shift isn’t necessarily due to technological limits. Headphones are more affordable and more advanced than ever. Instead, it’s about behavior — about our attitudes toward communal spaces and how we see ourselves within them. Many commuters, young and old, now feel emboldened to make their sound public, seemingly without a second thought. It’s a jarring adjustment, especially for those who remember when silence or softly leaking headphones were the most you’d hear in a carriage.
Changing commuter trends — like the increase in social media engagement and video content consumption — do play a role. Watching short videos or hopping on a quick call has become so ingrained in our daily routines that some travelers don’t even pause to grab headphones. In an age of instant access and relentless connectivity, the line between private life and public presence is fuzzier than ever before.
Of course, not everyone committing these audio intrusions is doing so with bad intentions. Some may genuinely not realize how disruptive it is. Others might be coping with a stressful commute the only way they know how. The truth is, we’re all negotiating a new kind of public etiquette — one that hasn’t quite been settled yet. And while that negotiation unfolds, many of us are left hoping for a return to quietude or, at the very least, a more thoughtful approach to noise in shared spaces.
As commuters, we know the value of a peaceful ride. It’s where many of us catch up on rest, reflect on the day, or just decompress. When that peace is pierced by uninvited sound, it doesn’t just disturb — it erodes the sense of shared respect that makes commuting bearable, even meaningful. Recognizing this shift isn’t about blaming or shaming; it’s about gently advocating for courtesy, for empathy, and for a return to consideration in spaces we all share.
In many ways, using headphones in public hasn’t just been about enjoying your favorite podcast or finally finishing that audiobook — it has also quietly functioned as a social contract. When we put on headphones, we send out a small but unmistakable signal: “I’m retreating into my world, but I’m doing so without disturbing yours.” It’s a gesture of mutual respect, and for years it formed the baseline etiquette of urban commuting. You had your media; I had mine. Nobody needed to know what the other was listening to. And that, honestly, was rather beautiful.
So when someone blares music or scrolls TikTok videos without headphones, it feels like that social contract is being broken. It catches you off guard, maybe even leaves you feeling helpless or uncomfortable — not necessarily because the content they’re sharing is offensive, but because it wasn’t offered to you in the first place. It was imposed, not invited. And that shift can make public spaces feel a little less safe, a little less manageable, especially when you’re already juggling the chaos of the workday or trying to find a peaceful moment in the crowd.
Part of what made the social contract around headphone use so powerful was that it was unspoken. Nobody needed signs on trains or announcements over the PA system to tell us to keep our audio to ourselves. It was a kind of quiet consensus — a shared cultural value — rooted in consideration and awareness. Even if someone’s music leaked a bit through flimsy earbuds, it still communicated a desire to be discreet. That effort mattered; it showed care for the invisible threads that hold public life together.
There’s also something quite tender about the act of using headphones on the commute. It’s a way of crafting a personal moment within a collective one, without disrupting the people around you. In that sense, headphones were never just accessories. They were tools of self-care and empathy. Many of us came to rely on them not just to survive the journey into cities teeming with motion and sound, but to do it while preserving the dignity of those around us. To now find ourselves having to speak up — or to endure — when someone presses play without them feels like losing a small but meaningful piece of communal understanding.
If you’ve ever hesitated to ask someone to turn it down, you’re not alone. There’s a fear that speaking up will escalate things. And too often, that fear is justified. But that fear also speaks volumes about how fragile our social agreements have become. Where we once had shared norms that required no enforcement, we now navigate rising uncertainty about what’s polite — and what might trigger an argument or, worse, aggression.
And yet, in the face of all this, kindness and encouragement still go a long way. Sometimes a gentle reminder really does work. Sometimes offering a pair of spare headphones, like Adrian once did on the train to Barcelona, truly does change the whole tone of a journey. Little moments of re-establishing that contract — even silently by example — can ripple outward more than we realize.
If you’re reading this and feeling weary from the noise of it all, please know your frustration is valid. Wanting peace is not selfish — it’s human. And in choosing to honor your fellow commuters’ auditory space, you’re quietly advocating for a kind of public intimacy that cities need more of. You’re part of a quiet resistance — one decibel, one headphone jack, one considerate moment at a time.
We might ask ourselves, with genuine curiosity and not just frustration: what’s going on in the mind of someone who streams full-volume video on a packed train? The answer isn’t always arrogance, or a lack of manners. Often, it’s something a little more complex — a web of psychological and emotional factors that shape how people relate to space, sound and one another.
Some behaviour experts point to desensitisation as a factor. In crowded cities that buzz constantly with noise, some people grow numb to auditory chaos. Their own noise doesn’t register as intrusive because, to them, it’s just another layer in an already loud environment. Over time, the shared mood of “let’s all keep it quiet” erodes, replaced by a sort of ambient individualism — one in which personal needs eclipse communal ones.
Other times, it’s about a sense of control. Public transport can feel chaotic and impersonal. For some, broadcasting their own sounds might feel like a way to assert presence — to reclaim space in a world that often makes people feel invisible. In this sense, the loudness isn’t just noise; it’s expression. It may be, consciously or not, a psychological buffer against feeling small in a big, fast-moving swathe of humanity. But while it’s understandable, the cost of such behaviour — a rising tension in shared spaces — doesn’t go unnoticed.
Let’s also consider how generational norms evolve. Younger commuters may have grown up in a culture where sharing everything — from playlists to personal updates — is not just normal but expected. In digital spaces, sound is part of the performance. TikTok clips, YouTube commentary, relentless notifications — it’s all meant to be heard. The boundaries between private and public, between “mine” and “ours,” are blurrier than ever. And when those habits travel offline, headphones aren’t always invited along for the ride.
This isn’t to label or dismiss anyone — after all, every generation builds the world it inherits. But these changes can result in a dissonance between intentions and impact. Someone watching a funny video with the volume up might simply be seeking comfort. Someone else, trying to unwind after a stressful shift, might interpret that same video as an invasion. Neither person is entirely wrong. And therein lies the psychological puzzle: how do we coexist empathetically when our coping methods — sound, silence, solitude, connection — are in conflict?
There’s also an element of what psychologists call “pluralistic ignorance” at play. That is, we often assume we’re the only ones bothered — that because no one else is saying anything, it must be fine. But most of us are quietly holding in the same frustration, the same longing for courtesy. When people think they’re alone in their discomfort, they stay quiet — and the silence reinforces the disruptions. It becomes a kind of psychological loop: no one says anything, so nothing changes.
Still, it’s crucial to remember that shared spaces are complex, emotional environments. People aren’t always at their best on the 7:42 into the city. They might be exhausted, anxious, or just barely holding things together. That doesn’t justify intrusive behavior, but it does help us understand it — and maybe respond with more compassion when we feel tempted to react with anger.
The rise in public audio isn’t necessarily the sign of a society that’s worsening. It may simply be the symptom of one in flux — navigating new technologies, changing norms, and altered expectations of privacy. We have more opportunity than ever to be mindful, to notice how our actions affect others, and to gently nudge our culture back toward shared care — not just with signs or rules, but with soft, human actions. A knowing glance. A polite question. A sincere offer of headphones.
In a world that often feels disconnected, these small gestures may be the very thing that makes us feel more connected — more seen, more heard, and more at home in the everyday, noisy theatre of public life.
Reclaiming that sense of shared calm doesn’t have to be a grand campaign. It can begin with simple acts — the kind that restore public spaces as places of quiet consideration rather than battlegrounds of competing sounds. That could mean a collective effort, yes, but it starts with individuals choosing to be present, to be aware, and to make kinder choices. Choices like reaching for headphones before pressing play. Or pausing a video when stepping into a carriage. Or even — when it feels right — gently reminding someone else to do the same. It’s not about confrontation, but about looking out for each other in the small ways that still matter.
Transport providers can play a meaningful role here, too. Some have already started introducing “quiet carriages” or signage encouraging headphone use — nudges that gently remind passengers of shared expectations. These steps, while subtle, help to reinstate that unspoken social contract. They say, “This is a space for coexistence.” And for those of us who miss the days of hushed train rides and softly murmured podcasts, that’s a welcome shift toward balance.
We can also spark change by talking more openly about it. The discomfort so many people feel isn’t fringe or fussy or nostalgic — it’s real, and it’s shared. When we tell our stories — about jarring commutes, about small, good interactions, about how cities used to feel just a little gentler — we remind people that this conversation matters. We create space to question why the noise started creeping in and how we might ease it back again.
Bringing back that culture of quiet doesn’t have to mean silencing joy or censoring spontaneity. It just means being mindful that joy doesn’t need to be blared for everyone to hear. It can live quietly in your ears, in a song that carries you through your morning, in the voice of a friend that soothes you through a difficult ride. And when we all commit to holding that joy privately, we make room for others to find their own — in a page of a book, in the rhythm of the rails, in the precious quiet between stops.
Public transport, at its best, is more than a utility — it becomes a shared heartbeat of a city. A bus ride during golden hour. A tube journey with strangers quietly lost in their own worlds. A tram gliding through the early morning hush. These are moments of collective pause in a society that so often urges us to rush, to scroll, to project our presence outward. By allowing each other the sanctuary of silence, even just occasionally, we reclaim those peaceful in-between moments — and remind each other that the city doesn’t have to be loud to be alive.
So the next time you slip on your headphones, or gently lower your phone’s volume, know that you’re doing more than just managing your commute. You’re participating in something a little bit radical: a culture of care. A quieter ride. A more respectful urban experience. And who knows — someone might see you do it and choose to follow suit. Little by little, a quieter future gets built that way: not with headlines or rules, but with everyday gestures of quiet grace.
