Picture a normal grocery run. My husband's got the list, I've got the cart, and for the first ten minutes everything's fine.
Then it starts stacking up. The scanners beep. The lights overhead buzz and glare. Cart wheels rattle, shoes squeak, and every conversation in the store seems to be happening right next to my ear. At some point, without warning, my words just... leave. My husband asks me something and I either don't hear it or I get out a word or two. So I do the only thing I can: I quietly follow him around until we're out the door.
The drive home doesn't fix it. It takes a while for me to come back online, and when I do, I'm done. Most of the time I end up sleeping the rest of the night.
That's the extreme version of what my senses are like. The best way I've found to explain it is that my brain's volume knob is broken. Some things come in way too loud: sounds, lights, the feel of fabric or water on my skin. Other things barely come through at all, like pain, hunger, or thirst. And the settings change on their own depending on how tired I am and what kind of day it's been.
I've lived like this my whole life, but I've only recently started finding the words for it. So this is me trying to put it into words, and then sharing the stuff that actually helps. If some of it sounds familiar, I hope you find something useful here.
Sound: I hear everything, and I can't turn it off
My hearing is fine. That's actually the problem. I hear everything, and my brain refuses to sort any of it into "background."
When I was little, I'd lie in bed and listen to the whole house. Cars going by outside. The hum of a TV that was on but not playing anything. The washing machine running a floor away. Pipes creaking in the walls. I had no idea what half those sounds were. When I asked about them, I usually got told there wasn't any noise.
Some sounds were just too much. The vacuum was my nemesis. Loud bangs, stuff hitting the floor, people talking too loud or all at once. It wasn't fear so much as being flooded. So I hid. The bathtub and the top shelf of a closet were my go-to spots, anywhere small where the world got muffled.
These days the soundtrack is different but the experience isn't. The buzz of lights. The fridge. Electronics humming. The fan in my bedroom that ticks just unevenly enough to drive me up the wall. Cars, planes, bugs, somebody's leaf blower three houses down. It's not just annoying. A lot of it actually hurts, and it piles up as the day goes on.
Noise also scrambles what people say to me. In a loud room, directions go in and fall right back out. And the same sound can be fine one day and unbearable the next, even though I am fairly sure it hasn't changed. It's also a big part of why I'm up for hours some nights.
The flip side is that some sounds are pure comfort. As a kid, nothing beat lying there listening to rain on the roof. It still works. Give me rain and a rolling thunderstorm (minus the sharp crack of lightning) and I can finally unclench. I also used to play one song, one my uncle wrote and recorded, on repeat constantly. There's something about hearing the same thing again and again that settles me.
Light: when the lights are "too loud"
Someone once asked me what sets me off, and one of the first things out of my mouth was "lights that are too loud." I know that's not how most people talk about light. But bright light hits me the same way a loud noise does.
The lighting most people call normal gives me headaches and puts me on edge. Flickering lights are the worst; the ones in my basement are a daily reminder. Funny enough, as a kid I got in trouble for flipping light switches on and off over and over. I burned out a bulb doing it once. Now I've swung the other way: every light in my house lives at 60% or lower.
My eyes do another weird thing too. Even with my glasses on, everything has a kind of static over it, like an old TV between channels. At night it's worse. In the dark I see static, and with headlights I see glare. So I don't drive at night. During the day, driving is still a lot. Cars zipping around me mess with my vision, and the road vibration comes up through the seat and makes my clothes rub against my skin the whole trip.
And then there's eye contact. It feels way too intense, almost intimate, and it's so distracting I stop hearing what the person is saying. So I look at their mouth instead. Bonus: it actually helps me follow the conversation.
Touch: seams, textures, and the shower
I pick clothes by how they feel, not how they look. Some fabrics that nobody else would think twice about feel awful on my skin. And if the seam of my pants and the seam of my underwear don't line up? That's it, that's my whole day now. It sounds tiny. It never fades into the background, though. It just keeps poking at me.
Like sound, touch changes on me. The same shirt can be fine in the morning and unbearable by lunch. Even my bed has to be right. Some nights I can't fall asleep because the mattress has slid an inch or two off the frame.
And being touched has always been hard. As a kid, I was fine being held by my mom, but pretty much anyone else made me uncomfortable. I'm still not a hugger.
The shower
I almost left this part out. But it's one of the clearest examples of how this stuff shows up in everyday life, so here goes.
Showering is one of the hardest parts of my week. I'll turn the water on and then pause there for half an hour or more before I get in. Part of that is waiting for the temperature to be just right. Part of it is running through every step in my head so I know exactly what I'm doing once I'm in there.
Once I'm in, it's a lot. The water feels like a bunch of tiny needles. It feels like a different temperature depending on where it lands. It's loud. And every soap and body wash smells like it's shouting at me.
I also lose all sense of time in there. Several times I've accidentally stayed in for over an hour. Then getting out is its own hurdle, and afterward my brain feels completely wrung out. Put all that together and it's easy to see why I avoid it. Right now my goal is at least once a week, and some weeks even that's a fight.
I'm telling you this because struggling with hygiene usually gets written off as being lazy or gross. For me, it's about the senses and the transitions. Being honest about that is what finally let me start working around it. Im still working on making it a more friendly place for me.
Brushing my teeth
The shower isn't the only battle in the bathroom. Brushing my teeth has been a struggle for as long as I can remember.
The toothpaste flavor was always way too strong. The foam made me gag. And mouthwash was its own nightmare, because the alcohol burned so much it was hard to keep it in my mouth. It never felt like I was cleaning my mouth. It felt like a war zone.
What made it worse was the dentist's office. I remember being told I needed to stop being lazy and brush my teeth. Or being told to brush three times a day, when I could barely manage once. It always felt like I was being judged and made fun of, and none of it helped. Nobody asked why it was so hard.
What finally changed things was finding products that took away some of that friction. Once brushing stopped feeling like an attack, I could actually start building a routine.
Food, and the signals that barely come through
With food, texture is a larger part than taste. I'll try new things, but I eat a lot of the same meals because a wrong texture or temperature can ruin the whole thing. Some foods are just a hard no. Coconut feels like it's choking me. Mango tastes like pure poison. And when one of my favorite snacks changed its recipe, that was the end of that snack.
Now for the other side of the broken volume knob: the stuff that comes through way too quiet.
Pain is a weird one for me. When I was younger I stepped on a nail that went straight through my foot, board still attached, and didn't notice until my dad pointed it out. Even then it didn't really hurt. When I was little I got my head stuck in the playground equipment, dangling there, and when someone asked if it hurt, I said no. I was just annoyed about being stuck. But a bump or a rug burn could hurt in a way that felt like I was dying. It's not that I feel less pain or more pain. It's that I never know which one I'll get.
Hunger and thirst barely register either. Usually the first sign I'm hungry is a stomachache. For thirst, I've learned to watch for clues like a headache or feeling dizzy, because the "I'm thirsty" feeling mostly doesn't show up. Growing up, the same thing happened with needing the bathroom. The signal just didn't come until it was urgent.
This is the part that surprises people most. When they hear "sensory sensitivity," they picture someone who feels everything too much. For me it's both, depending on the sense and the day.
Movement: toe walking, rocking, and fidgeting
I've walked on my toes for as long as I've been walking. Everyone who knew me as a kid remembers it. Plenty of adults tried to get me to stop. One babysitter even made me wear shoes inside to keep my heels down. I kept doing it in public until I was in my late teens, and then I just got better at hiding it.
It took me a long time to figure out why. I don't like how the ground feels under bare feet, especially flat-footed. Walking or pacing on my toes calms me down. And once people started correcting it, I got clumsier. I bumped into things more and tripped more. I still walk into door frames, knock over cups when I reach for them, drop food, and find bruises I can't explain.
There's other stuff too. Rocking or spinning helps when I'm stressed. My hands like to do the same motions over and over. I've chewed on the inside of my cheeks forever (sorry, dentist). I repeat words just because they feel good to say, and I quote movie lines because they're fun.
I learned to hide most of this because people pointed it out. But hiding it takes energy, and when I'm worn out, it all slips through, sometimes before I notice. These days I think of it less as quirks to stamp out and more as my body's way of keeping itself steady.
When it all piles up
It's rarely one thing that gets me. It's everything together. If you ask me what upset me on a bad day, I usually can't point to one moment, because it's been building since I woke up. Mornings are my best time. By evening, I've got a lot less room.
I think of it like a cup. Every buzzing light, every seam that won't sit right, every overlapping conversation adds a little. A sudden change of plans adds a lot. When the cup finally overflows, I lose my words. I go quiet and my face goes blank (people ask if I'm okay a lot). I can get short with people without realizing it. And more than anything, I need to get out and get somewhere dark and quiet.
When I was a kid, overflowing looked like crying and throwing myself around. Now it mostly looks like shutting down.
The cleanup takes time. One rough grocery trip can wipe out my whole evening. When that happens day after day without a real break, everything gets harder. My energy tanks, taking care of myself slips, and I don't have anything left to hide the rocking or the toe walking.
That's why the tools below matter so much to me. They don't make me "normal." They slow down how fast the cup fills, and they help me empty it.
My toolkit: what actually helps
None of this is a cure. It's just the stuff I've picked up over the years, some of it since I was a kid, that takes the edge off and helps me bounce back.
Quieting things down
- Earplugs and headphones. My number one tool. When the house gets too loud, they go in.
- Rain and thunderstorm sounds. Same trick that worked when I was little. It gives my brain one steady sound to hold onto instead of a hundred random ones.
- Music in the shower. A playlist tells me roughly how long I've been in there, so I don't lose an hour without noticing.
Turning the lights down
- Dimmers everywhere. Every light in my house stays at 60% or lower. This one change has cut down my headaches more than anything.
- Blackout curtains. My bedroom can go fully dark whenever I need it to.
- Sunglasses at the store. Yes, indoors. The grocery store lights are brutal.
- No night driving. I just plan around it instead of white-knuckling it.
- Looking at mouths, not eyes. I stay in the conversation without the intensity, and I actually catch more of what people say.
Feeling better in my own skin
- A weighted blanket. That steady, even pressure settles me faster than almost anything.
- Changing clothes the second they bug me. Instead of gritting my teeth all day, I just change. Small thing, big difference.
- Comfort over looks. Always.
- Toothpaste and mouthwash that don't fight back. A milder flavor, less foam, and no alcohol burn turned brushing from a war zone into something I can build a routine around.
My Store
CloSYS
Real Essentials
Moving and fidgeting
- Fidget toys. My favorite is a little roller I can spin around in my hand. It keeps my hands busy and my head in the room.
- Letting myself move at home. Pacing, rocking, toe walking. At home, I stop hiding it.
Looking out for my body
- Watching for clues. Since I don't really feel thirsty, I watch for things like a headache or feeling dizzy as my cue to drink something.
- Safe foods. Eating the same things isn't me being picky. It's one less surprise in a day full of them.
Keeping life predictable
Surprises wear me out almost as much as noise does, so a little structure goes a long way.
- Everything has a pocket. Wallet and keys go on the left, phone on the right. Has been that way since I was a kid.
- One agenda, one place. If I know what's coming (and what everyone else is planning that affects me), I'm way less likely to get thrown off.
- Running through it first. I rehearse conversations and tasks in my head before I do them. Yes, even showers.
- A reading guide. When I'm tired and keep losing my place on the page, a line guide keeps me on track.
Hitting the reset button
When I'm overloaded at home, I have a routine that almost always works. I go to my bedroom, close the blackout curtains, kill the lights, put my earplugs in, crawl under my weighted blanket, and just lie there in the dark for half an hour to an hour. Some days I don't even make it that far and crash on the couch first. Either way, rest isn't optional for me. It's how I empty the cup.
If you made it this far
For most of my life I didn't have words for any of this. I just knew grocery stores wiped me out, showers were a battle, and I could hear things other people swore weren't there. People called me quirky, or said I was "in my own world." Really, my senses are just turned way up in some places and way down in others.
If you see yourself in any of this, here's the biggest thing I've learned: stop trying to tough it out. Dim the lights. Wear the earplugs. Change the shirt. Leave the store. Plan your downtime before you crash, not after. None of that is weakness. It's just taking care of yourself.
And if someone you love is like this, the best thing you can do is believe them. When they say a sound hurts or a light is too much, take their word for it, even if you can't feel it yourself. Little changes help more than you'd think.
I'm still figuring all this out, and none of the links in this article are affiliate links. They are simply links to products that I have found over time that help me.