On the Blink

We often think about disabilities in isolation — as if someone won’t share limitations with a person possessing a different diagnosis. But the most interesting thinking comes from putting different ways of living in conversation. These discussions unearth common ground and help us build a more inclusive world. Conversation propels imagination, and imagination builds solutions.

This morning, I was inspired by Dr. Zonya Mitchell’s post, Your Autistic Anxiety May Be a Sensory Processin≠g Problem. Dr. Mitchell, The Autism Doctor, shares strategies to help autistic adults “heal burnout…and reclaim joy.” Dr. Mitchell’s post explains how sensory overwhelm and fatigue contribute to anxiety. She includes how long-term exposure to sounds, sights, textures, or smells can create profound exhaustion. Most importantly, she articulates how these sensations cannot be ignored; someone can’t “tough it out” when their nervous system is wired for different sensory experiences.

“Aren’t Your Senses Heightened?”: What I Experience

Though we often discuss these sensory challenges in the context of autism, they are not unique to individuals with autism. As a blind woman, I regularly experience sensory differences, overwhelm, and anxiety. I cannot handle prolonged bright light, loud environments, or multiple auditory channels.

Light sensitivity is one of my most prevalent difficulties. When I’m out in public, I live behind my sunglasses — whether I’m standing outside or shopping in a brightly lit store. My limited vision works best at dusk outdoors and in classy Italian restaurants indoors. My home and work spaces are populated with desk lamps and floor lamps. The curtains are closed.

Sound sensitivity is also a challenge. Because I’m gathering most of my information by ear, my system is on overdrive. When people ask, “Aren’t your senses heightened?” They imagine a superpower that can be commanded. But my senses are not heightened. I don’t have a superpower to compensate for my disability; I have a brain that has learned to sort information differently.

I can’t turn my ears off, and I can’t ignore background noise unless it’s at a low level. If I get in the car and you have the radio on, I can’t process your conversation and the radio sounds at the same time. At a recent doctor visit, there were two TVs (on different channels) and a radio playing in the lobby in addition to the receptionist conversing with patients and patients talking to each other. None of these sounds were loud. But they were all occurring at once. I became exhausted within minutes.

How I Designed a Restorative Classroom

Sensory fatigue is real. I love Dr Mitchell’s phrase “reducing sensory demand,” because this is what I strive to do, especially in my work spaces. Six years ago, I left college teaching and began teaching high school: I finally had the chance to customize a classroom. I turned off the overhead lights and covered the light panels with cloud filters — just in case an unthinking colleague flipped the switch. I used floor lamps with low lumens and built a classroom culture around quiet habits. I allowed students to talk but requested that they be able to hear my voice at all times.

I adorned the walls with butterflies, birds, and flowers and avoided the dreaded anchor charts. I believe students can suffer from “text fatigue” so I refused to build a word wall. The paintings I chose were still lifes or nature scenes, and students created art for my classroom. Desks were arranged so that students could work in pairs, larger groups, or alone. At one campus, I had a solitary table labeled “Quiet Corner,” where students could work if they felt overstimulated.

In my last classroom, I deliberately placed an empty chair next to my desk in case students needed to talk with me. I was surprised by how quickly they claimed this spot — and how eagerly they waited for their turn if the chair was occupied.

I also started hosting a “quiet room” during school events, like pep rallies, that are overstimulating for some students. It’s rewarding to see the same 20 students signing up for the Quiet Room. I’ve even had students ask if they can sign their friends up. We play games, listen to soft weather sounds, or just talk. It’s a safe place where students can connect with others sharing their sensory experiences.

What These Spaces Reveal and Why We Need Them

The more gentle environment serves all of my students. They often say that the room helps them calm down and focus. Students ask to work in my classroom even when they’re not on my schedule. And the Quiet Room, which started with one student, usually holds about 25 regular attendees.

By establishing quiet spaces, we show students that their way of being in the world matters — that we respect their limitations and want them to thrive. Not everyone is built for bright lights and loud music. Maybe a student can tolerate these things for an hour or only 15 minutes. When the Quiet Room exists, that student knows their difference is honored. They can begin to think about how they will handle these challenges in their adult life.

I built the restorative classroom to reduce my own sensory demands, but it has nurtured hundreds of students. That’s the beauty of universal design: where accommodations and accessibility help make a vibrant space for everyone.