Nervous system design, in plain language.

Sensory processing is how the nervous system receives, organizes and responds to information from our bodies and the world around us. Sensory-processing differences can include being highly responsive to certain input, less responsive to other input, or actively seeking particular kinds of sensory experiences.

And those patterns can vary within the same person. Someone might be extremely sensitive to sound or light while seeking pressure, movement or other forms of sensory input. There is no single sensory profile that describes everyone.

We commonly think of sight, sound, touch, taste and smell as our five senses. But our sensory systems also include vestibular input, which helps us understand movement and balance; proprioception, which helps us sense where our body is in space; and interoception, which helps us perceive internal signals such as hunger, thirst, temperature and the need to use the bathroom.

All of these systems contribute to how we experience our bodies, our environments and everyday life.

Take just one sense: touch. Temperature, texture, light versus firm touch, wet versus dry, itching and pressure are only some of the ways tactile input can affect a person.

Now multiply that by the complexity within every other sensory system — and then add what happens when multiple kinds of sensory input occur at the same time.

Sensory-processing differences can look and feel very different from one person to another. Yet there are also recognizable patterns. Clothing tags are intolerable for many people. Some are extremely sensitive to light. Certain sounds, smells, textures or temperatures can trigger an immediate and powerful response.

One of the most useful things we can learn is our own cause and effect:

When I experience something, what happens next?

Recognizing those patterns can help us identify triggers earlier, understand what our nervous system may be responding to, and discover which changes to our environment or sensory input actually help.

There isn't one product or solution that can address all of a person's sensory-processing differences — much less everyone's.

Our sensory systems are too complex and our individual responses too different. Even within a single sensory system such as touch, one person may seek pressure while another avoids it; one may be highly sensitive to temperature, texture or light touch while another responds very differently.

Sensory-informed design isn't about trying to "solve" sensory processing. It's about identifying a particular source of discomfort or need and asking what can be thoughtfully designed to help.

A product might address temperature. Another might provide gentle containment or pressure. Another might reduce unwanted sound or light. Some designs may address several related needs within one sensory system. None can address every sensory system or every person.

The goal is not one universal solution. It is more thoughtful options, more adjustability and more control in the hands of the person experiencing the sensory input.

Sensory-processing differences don't necessarily disappear when childhood ends. Adults may continue to experience sensory sensitivities and sensory-seeking patterns that affect work, relationships, sleep, routines, social situations and everyday life.

For adults who grew up without understanding why certain sensations affected them so strongly, there can be another layer to the experience: years of being told — by others or by themselves — that they were overreacting, difficult or should simply be able to tolerate what was bothering them.

That judgment can make it harder to respond appropriately to sensory signals. A person may learn to override an early warning — It's not that bad. I should be able to tolerate this — rather than recognize it and make an adjustment before sensory load builds.

Learning to recognize and respect those signals can change that relationship. A seemingly small adjustment — changing the temperature, reducing a sound, moving away from a smell, dimming a light or removing an irritating texture — may help prevent one source of discomfort from becoming part of a much larger cascade.

For adults who only discover their sensory-processing differences later in life, understanding them can provide something they may have been missing for decades: permission to stop judging the signal and start responding to it.

And it raises an important question about children as well: What changes when sensory differences are recognized, understood and supported early, rather than criticized or dismissed?

Sensory-processing differences can occur alongside conditions including autism, ADHD and anxiety, among others. The way those experiences overlap — and the degree to which sensory input affects daily life — varies greatly from person to person.

Understanding sensory needs is therefore less about fitting someone into a single profile and more about understanding how that particular person experiences and responds to sensory input.

Sensory input is part of nearly everything we do. When certain kinds or combinations of input become difficult to process, the effects can extend beyond the immediate sensory experience.

Sensory differences may affect attention, emotional regulation, motor coordination, sleep, social situations, participation in activities and the ability to function comfortably in everyday environments.

What feels minor to one person can be genuinely overwhelming to another. Understanding that difference is an important part of creating environments, expectations and products that work for more people.

When sensory differences are significantly affecting everyday life, a qualified healthcare professional can help evaluate what is happening and identify appropriate support.

Occupational therapists are among the professionals who work with sensory-processing challenges. Because sensory needs and responses vary so widely, assessment and support should be individualized rather than based on a one-size-fits-all approach.

I wasn't a child when I learned about SPD. In fact, I was in my 50s when I finally had language for what I had been experiencing my whole life.

This wasn't just an "aha moment." It explained decades of deep struggle — not only the sensory challenges themselves, but the criticism and judgment I had experienced from people throughout my life. The self-criticism was even worse.

I had heard, "What's your problem? Just get over it." And inside my own head, I was saying the same thing: "Get over it, Liz. Why can't you do that?"

Once I understood that my sensory-processing differences were real, I could look backward and see how deeply they had affected me throughout my life. I could begin replacing judgment with understanding — and, more importantly, start figuring out what actually helped.

Untangling the mess

When I was first trying to understand my own SPD, I called the process "untangling the mess."

I was experiencing what I came to think of as domino triggers — one sensory trigger followed by another, and another, until the combined sensory load could leave me unable to function.

So I started trying to untangle it. Instead of experiencing the whole thing as one overwhelming event, I tried to identify the individual pieces.

What were the dominoes? What had already fallen? Which sensory system was involved? What happened next? And was there one thing I could change?

Sometimes the solution was remarkably simple. If sunlight coming through a window was making my headache worse, I could close the curtain. More importantly, once I understood that relationship, I could close the curtain before the sunlight became a problem.

That distinction became enormously important to me. I learned that sometimes I could prevent a trigger, sometimes I could lessen its impact, and sometimes I simply had to recover from it. But the more individual triggers I understood, the less often I found myself trying to recover from an entire cascade of them at once.

Today, I sometimes joke that I do a hundred little things a day to stay ahead of my sensory triggers. Many have become so automatic that I barely think about them anymore.

There's a lot less mess to untangle because I've learned to recognize the individual threads.

For me, understanding my triggers wasn't the end of the story. It was the beginning of learning what I could change — in my environment, in the products I used, and in the way I responded when my nervous system was becoming overwhelmed.

That's one of the reasons Sensory Product Design exists.

That same thinking eventually found its way into how I design products.

Sensory needs are extraordinarily individual. I don't believe there is one product that can "solve" sensory-processing differences for everyone.

Instead, I look at the individual sources of discomfort and ask:

What can we change? What can we prevent? What can we make easier to adjust? And how much control can we give back to the person experiencing it?

That is the thinking behind sensory-informed design: understanding individual needs, looking for recurring patterns and designing ways for people to adjust their own experience.