Moments Between the Chaos – Sensory Overload

I planned my weekend to prepare for the upcoming holiday—cleaning on Saturday and shopping on Sunday at two stores for our annual snack table. It’s a tradition I created when we moved to Illinois, a way to recreate the abundance of food at my family’s holiday parties. It helps me stay connected to my family of origin while creating memories for my own children.

My son, however, asked if we could add another stop and shop on Saturday instead.

I felt the familiar tightening at the idea of three stores on a holiday weekend. But it was time with my son, so I changed my plans.

The first store was crowded but manageable. We wove through the aisles, choosing snacks for the holiday table—old favorites and a few new discoveries. I paused when I needed to breathe and reminded myself why this mattered.

The second stop went much the same. We found what we needed for the holiday meal, checked it off the list, and moved on.

By the time we pulled into the last parking lot, my capacity was already thinning. The earlier crowds, lights, and noise lingered in my body, a low hum I couldn’t shake.

The doors slid open and the light hit hard—bright and immediate. Sound followed: carts rattling, music overhead, voices layered too fast to separate. There were no carts in the corral. My son went to find one while I stood just inside the entrance, already bracing.

When he returned, I leaned into the cart, using it as a shield. I stared at my list, grounding myself. You’ve got this, I told myself.

The aisles felt narrower here. People moved unpredictably, too close, their impatience brushing against me like static. I noticed everything—the squeak of wheels, the flicker of fluorescent lights, the hurried movements of personal shoppers cutting past.

My shoulders crept upward. My hands tightened on the handle. My breath shortened without my permission.

I texted my son: I’m done. We need to wrap this up.

Efficiency took over. I moved faster, not because the task was difficult, but because the idea of returning another day brought tears to the edge of my vision.

At checkout, I rehearsed calm. I smiled when spoken to. From the outside, it looked like nothing had happened at all.

We loaded the car and exited the parking lot. I glanced toward my son and sensed he could feel my tension. I worried he might be taking it personally.

So I took a deep breath and told him what was happening inside me. I reminded him of moments in the past when shopping had felt hard.

“I don’t remember that,” he said.

Maybe, as the youngest, he doesn’t. Or maybe, as the children grew older, I took them with me less often. What mattered more was that we talked—about how the same experience can feel entirely different on the inside than it looks on the outside.

I started the day on a mission to preserve a tradition. In the end, I found myself doing something more meaningful: exploring life with my son.

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The Quiet Side of Overwhelm

“Sometimes, the most meaningful connection doesn’t come from getting everything done, but from letting ourselves be seen in the middle of it.”

Sensory overload isn’t always loud or dramatic. Often, it’s quiet—held together by competence, politeness, and a practiced smile. What others see as “fine” can feel very different on the inside.

Moments like this remind me how important it is to name our internal experience, especially with the people we love. When we do, we create space for understanding rather than misinterpretation.

The image in this post was created using AI.