When too much is too much: Sensory overload & the need for silence

Sometimes it’s not just noise.

It’s the fabric that’s slightly scratchy.
The overhead lights that flicker a little too brightly.
The ping of a message when your nervous system already feels full.
The background music layered over a voice, over a thought, over a world that never stops.

Sometimes it’s too many textures, sounds, lights, smells, expectations —
and your body quietly starts shutting down while you smile and nod and say “I’m fine.”

Sensory overload isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it shows up as irritability.
Or zoning out mid-sentence.
Or needing to cancel plans last minute and not knowing how to explain why.
Sometimes it’s lying in bed, lights off, with your whole system vibrating like it ran a marathon — even though you barely left the house.

I used to think I was dramatic.
That I needed to toughen up.
That being around people all day and “just dealing with it” was something everyone could do — and I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

Now I know better.

Now I know that my senses are wired differently — that I absorb more, more deeply, more all at once.
And that this is not a flaw. It’s information. It’s data. It’s truth.

The truth is: I need silence.
Not the kind that’s empty or lonely —
but the kind that’s sacred.
The kind where no one asks, nothing demands, and the world releases its grip.

In those moments, I turn the volume down — not just in my ears, but in my life.
I unplug.
I lower the lights.
I go barefoot on the floor.
I breathe slowly and ask myself:
What do I need right now, just to feel safe in my own skin again?

Sometimes, the answer is stillness.
Sometimes, it’s softness.
Sometimes, it’s stepping outside for five quiet minutes with a cup of something warm.
No notifications. No tasks. Just existing.

If you're reading this and feeling seen —
please know that you are not too sensitive.
You are sensing deeply in a world built for numbness.

And when everything is too much,
you’re allowed to go quiet.
You’re allowed to say no.
You’re allowed to pause, unplug, disappear — and come back when the world feels soft enough to re-enter.

That is not failure. That is wisdom.
That is care.