#3 The golden lines of life: Where ART meets Science

Sometimes, it’s a detail that tells a story. Not loud. Not in the spotlight. But quietly present. Like the golden streaks on my canvases. They shine, catch the light, draw your gaze. And if you look a little longer, you’ll see that they are not just lines. They’ve been healed, but never hidden. They tell a story.

On the third cover of ENT & Audiology News, such a detail is visible. A close-up of those golden lines. For the attentive observer, it might already be a signature of sorts. But what not everyone knows: it’s more than just style. It’s a story. It’s life.

In my consultation room, during my tinnitus appointments, I hear those stories. Stories that move you. Sometimes raw, heartbreaking. People who are stuck. Who don’t know what to do anymore. Who have tried everything and found no relief. Not in a pill, not in a device, not in a word.

One of the stories that always stays with me is of an elderly woman who, having lived with low-frequency noise (LFG) for so long, felt her balance and peace slowly slipping away. It began in her home, a place that once was a refuge, filled with memories of her beloved partner. But the constant, almost invisible hum of low-frequency sound was the silent intruder. The slow, heavy rumble that never stopped, seemed to penetrate the walls of her house. She couldn’t avoid it anymore. Every conversation, every thought, every action was drowned by that sound, making her world feel smaller. And then tinnitus joined in. A ringing that wouldn’t stop, a sound that made everything already difficult even worse. Tinnitus was the last drop in a glass that had already been filled with life’s challenges, with loss, with struggle. The low-frequency sounds in her home, that had literally affected her health, were the silent thieves stealing her precious moments of rest.

Then there’s the young woman who went to a concert, hoping to escape. The festival, the music, the joy of the crowd, everything seemed like the perfect moment to let go of her stress. But that one moment, that one loud note, changed everything. She got tinnitus and hyperacusis. Now her world is too loud, too chaotic. What once brought her joy has now become an attack on her senses. The hustle and bustle of the city is no longer bearable, the music she once loved now sounds like an assault on her nerves. The silence of the night is now her only refuge, but even there, in the quiet, there’s no escape from the constant noise in her head. Everything feels overwhelming, everything is too much. The noise makes it hard to connect with others, to enjoy what was once taken for granted. What started as an adventure for her is now a battle to find peace.

And then there’s the refugee. His eyes tell the story of impatience and pain. Sounds that turned his home into a war zone, gunshots, explosions, screams. But after fleeing, after surviving, something remained that wasn’t visible: tinnitus. The strange sound of a society that didn’t want to welcome him. The unwelcomeness of a country where he thought he would find safety, but where sounds of rejection and misunderstanding became his new reality. His trauma was unheard. The physical silence he so desperately longed for was overshadowed by mental storms of unrest and despair. His journey wasn’t just to another country, but into an internal battle where sound continued to dominate his life. The sounds of war, followed by the sounds of a society that didn’t make room for him, made survival even harder. Tinnitus wasn’t just a physical complaint; it was a reminder of the war and the loss of home.

These three people, so different in their backgrounds, but united by the invisible yet deeply impactful sounds of tinnitus and LFG, reflect the complexity of our experiences. Sound can be seen as a metaphor for everything we don’t want to see, for everything we don’t want to feel, for everything we try to avoid. It’s as though the noise in our head, the discomfort in our bodies, our pain, the unspoken grief, all come together in that one sound.

But what we often forget is that tinnitus, the noise, the LFG, isn’t always the only problem. It’s the drop that makes the already full glass overflow. It’s the scream of a life full of unresolved pain, loss, stress, and worries. And what if we don’t try to empty the glass? What if we make space for the sound, without letting it take control of us?

That’s where ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy) comes in. Instead of trying to fight tinnitus, the noise, the pain, it’s about finding space. Not to fight against, but to accept. Not to ignore the problem, but to let it simply be. And then there’s space for other things. For the beautiful moments you still have, for the relationships that are there, for the life that’s still there, despite the pain.

Just like in my paintings. Those golden streaks come from scars. Thickenings on the canvas. An imperfection that I didn’t hide, but covered with gold leaf. A tribute to what caused pain. Like the Japanese art of Kintsugi – where broken pottery is mended with gold. The break remains visible, but makes the object more valuable. Not in spite of the break, but because of it.

And that’s how I see the people in my consultation room. Every person is a work of art. Unique, fragile, powerful. Not perfect, but real. And every person carries something. Sometimes visible, sometimes not. But always felt. And what we carry shapes us. Makes us. And sometimes, when we dare to let that pain not be hidden but allowed, to ask for help, to share insights, then those scars can turn into gold. Wearable. Even valuable.

Tinnitus is then no longer just the enemy. It becomes the guide. The reminder that you are alive. That something in you wants to be heard. And then the word hearing takes on a deeper meaning. Not just auditory, but existential. Hearing then becomes experiencing. Acknowledging. Letting it be heard.

Those golden lines are a symbol of that. The journey each of us makes. The strength that comes from vulnerability. The silence you find amidst the noise. The art of balance. Of life.

The glass can become bigger. Space can be created. For sound AND peace. For sorrow AND joy. For science AND art. For you.

Because true wealth is not in what you never had to carry, but in what you’ve carried and learned to cherish.

This is what the third cover is about.

This is the line that runs through every canvas.

And this is what I see in you, as you sit across from me.