When I was younger, I didn’t know why the world sometimes felt like an assault course. Everyone else seemed to breeze through things that left me fighting back tears. I thought I was the problem. People asked why I wouldn’t wear certain clothes, why I kept wearing the same jumper again and again, or why getting dressed could end with me sitting on the floor refusing to move. I didn’t have the words for it then. I just knew that everything touching me felt wrong, that my body couldn’t stand it, and that the more people pushed me to “just wear it,” the more I crumbled.
Years later, after my diagnosis, I finally understood. Those moments weren’t tantrums or stubbornness, they were autistic meltdowns caused by sensory overload. Every tiny sensation was turned up to full blast. What others could tune out, I couldn’t. I’d been living life with the volume stuck on maximum.
Understanding Sensory Sensitivity
Autistic sensory sensitivity is a funny thing. Our brains process sensory information differently, so everything from sound to texture to smell can come through as intense, detailed, and unfiltered. It’s like my brain has no dimmer switch. For most people, sensory input arrives in neat little layers. For me, it’s a constant flood. Every sound, every flicker of light, every brush of fabric arrives at once. Nothing fades into the background.
That can be magical or it can be painful. Sometimes it feels like standing inside a symphony, every note shining with perfect clarity. Other times it’s like being trapped in that same symphony when all the instruments start competing. When that happens, my brain can’t separate what matters. It’s not just “too loud” or “too bright,” it’s too everything. My heart races, my muscles tighten, my thoughts scatter. It’s physical, emotional, and completely overwhelming.
This is why coffee shops, meetings, and networking events are so difficult. I struggle to hear your voice because all the sounds are the same volume. The background noise doesn’t fade, it sits there beside your words, demanding equal attention. I can only really tune in if I know you well and I’m calm enough to focus. Otherwise it all blurs into a wall of sound and movement. I’m not ignoring you, I’m just lost in the noise.
Adapting Without Knowing
As I got older and started choosing my own clothes, I adapted without even realising it. I built a wardrobe of soft, safe fabrics, clothes that didn’t hurt. I re-wore them endlessly because they didn’t scrape or sting. I also began avoiding objects that set my nerves off, like mugs with rough, unglazed bottoms. If my skin brushes against that texture, it makes me recoil. It’s not dislike, it’s discomfort, deep and immediate.
I didn’t know I was creating a protective bubble. I thought I was just being practical. Looking back, I see how many quiet changes I made to make life bearable. Every one of them was an act of self-preservation, a small adaptation to turn down the volume of the world.
The Joy of Feeling Everything
As hard as it can be, my sensory world also gives me some of the happiest moments of my life. When it all aligns, it’s extraordinary. My favourite feeling in the world is walking in the rain. The rhythm of the drops on my hood, the cool air on my face, the smell of wet pavement and earth… it’s grounding, soothing, real. Snow is the same. Norway is etched into my memory because of it. Thick snow underfoot, the clean sharp air, the quietness of everything around me. I can’t see it in my head, because I have aphantasia, but I can still feel it.
Egypt was another perfect sensory storm. My favourite moment wasn’t sightseeing or history, it was sitting in the back of a 4×4 racing across the desert. Holding on tight, feeling the bumps, the sand, the speed, the laughter. It was chaos and peace all at once. I felt alive, fully there. The same thing happens when I sit right at the top front of a double-decker bus winding through country roads, every turn and jolt making me grin. Or when I’m on an open-top bus in Torquay, sea spray in the air, wind tangling my hair, salt on my lips. Those moments feed my soul.
I may not be able to remember visually what a place looks like when I close my eyes …. I can’t picture the colours, the angles, the shapes. Yet I can remember exactly how it felt. The way the air moved, the sounds that wrapped around me, the rhythm of my heartbeat in that moment. My memories live in sensation, not in image. It’s the same with people. I might forget the details of a face unless you’re one of the very rare few whose presence I can almost see when I close my eyes, but I never forget how you make me feel. I remember your voice, your scent, the energy in the room when you’re there. That’s how I connect to the world … through what I feel rather than what I see.
My Reset Button
When everything starts to feel too much, I turn to music. Headphones on, world off. I’ll go walking, sometimes dancing around the living room, sometimes both. The rhythm and vibration reset my brain, pulling all the scattered bits of thought back into place. I used to think it was just a quirk. Now I know it’s sensory regulation, the way my brain rebalances. It’s not indulgence, it’s medicine.
My 4DX Revelation
This weekend I tried something new, and it was glorious. Back to the Future was re-released for its 40th anniversary, and I went to see it in 4DX. If you haven’t heard of it, 4DX is cinema turned into a full-body experience. The seats move, air bursts hit you, water sprays, lights flash, and you feel the film rather than just watch it. It’s not 3D, it’s interactive.
My friend wasn’t convinced. We’ve seen that film a hundred times, we could probably act it out. He thought it was pointless. He was wrong. The moment Marty struck his guitar, the seats jolted. When the DeLorean hit 88 miles per hour, wind rushed past and lights flared. When it rained, tiny sprays of water hit my face. It was like being inside the movie. My brain didn’t drift, didn’t overthink, didn’t wander. I was fully present, absorbed, joyful.
I left exhilarated and instantly started looking up what else was showing in 4DX. It was the most fun I’ve had in ages, the perfect mix of nostalgia and sensation. If you’re sensory-seeking like me, it’s heaven.
Feeling Life
Now I’m sitting here listening to Finale by Mike Oldfield, the layers of rhythm washing over me. The sound feels like movement, like colour, like breathing out after a long week. It grounds me … It connects me. I can feel the music in my bones and that’s where peace lives for me.
I don’t need to jump out of planes or climb mountains. I just need sound, motion, weather, and touch. Things that let me connect with the world on my terms. Words matter, but actions, tone, and presence reach me more deeply.
Because I live life by feel, and when everything lines up just right…. it’s not chaos at all…. it’s magic.