One Bad Night, and the World Felt Too Loud
How Stress Warps the Senses
Yesterday had been a good day, one of those days when you glide through with low effort and ease.
It seemed I saw someone I knew around every corner, and saying hello or giving a nod to lots of people makes me feel popular, like I belong. I answered a question in class and even told a teacher I didn’t know the answer without wanting to curl up in embarrassment. No one laughed.
I was on top of the world.
That night, my older sister Mia arrived home in an awful mood. Something’s clearly going on with her. I don’t know what, but the endless whispering and furtive looks between my parents scream that it is something serious.
I asked, and as always, got the “everything’s fine” lie.
It’s not fine.
Mia was angry. If I behaved like her, slamming cupboard doors and huffing at every question, I would be in big trouble, my phone confiscated, but my parents were treating her like a skittish foal.
I made one sarcastic comment — "Who pissed on your cornflakes?" — and I got sent to my room.
I lay there, listening to the shouting through the ceiling.
After an hour, the front door slammed.
I peeked out from behind my curtain. Mia stood beneath the orange streetlight, wiping her tears with her sleeve. She looked small. My heart ached.
With my cheek pressed against the cold window pane, I could just see Mia climb into a battered car at the end of the street, which looked sus.
I couldn’t sleep. I stayed alert, listening for any sign she was back.
At 2:14 a.m., the door creaked open.
Shuffling feet. Bathroom light. Electric toothbrush buzz.
Then her bedroom door shut, and the house seemed to finally exhale. Eventually, I fell asleep.
My alarm screamed at 7:30. I’d barely scraped four hours of broken sleep.
Mum and Mia were still in bed. Dad and I moved through our morning routine in silence, which helped; my brain couldn’t form words.
The walk to school was painful.
My legs ached. My hips throbbed.
Traffic felt louder and closer, dangerous.
I flinched away from the curb.
The fluorescent lights at school stabbed into my skull.
My friend’s voice scratched at my nerves like a dull blade.
My bag snagged on my tights. Elbows shoved into my sides.
Then the bell rang — shrill, piercing, dramatic.
I nearly leapt out of my skin. My friends laughed:
"You’ve heard it a million times before."
They weren’t wrong. But it didn’t matter.
Today, I couldn’t handle it.
The head teacher’s voice droned through tinny speakers on the smart board. Exhausting and irritating at the same time. Setting the tone for the day.
By lesson three, I had a full-on headache. My pulse drummed a beat behind my bloodshot eyes.
In the afternoon, the words on the coursework moved on the page, letters entwined in a slow dance I couldn’t follow.
And still, I was bracing for the walk home and whatever chaos might be waiting there.
A Note on Sensory Overload
This isn’t just a story about being “moody” or “dramatic.”
It’s about how stress and emotional load can physically rewire our sensory experience.
“The same girl who coasted through yesterday could barely exist in her own skin today.”
We often treat sensory sensitivity like a fixed trait, especially when talking about neurodivergence. But in reality, sensory thresholds can shift dramatically depending on what we’re carrying emotionally, mentally, and physically.
The lights didn’t get brighter.
Noises didn’t get louder.
But she had less capacity to filter them out.
This is why rest, predictability, and emotional safety matter.
Because sometimes, the world is just too much.
💬
Have you experienced stress-related sensory overload?
Do you notice changes in your tolerance depending on how you’re feeling?