Breathing Through Overstimulation

I had to breathe my way through the last 15 minutes of a visit to Big W today. I felt the bile rising in my throat, the fuzzy edges of my vision, the increase in my heart rate, and the overwhelming need to get out. But here’s the thing—this response makes sense to me. I’m indoors, under artificial lighting. There’s so much for my senses to process, and the layout feels like a maze, designed to trap me and manipulate me into buying things I don’t need.

These moments highlight something I reflect on often, and I’ve discussed it with my psych from time to time. What if there’s nothing wrong with me or anyone else who feels “unsafe” in certain environments?

What if, instead of pathologising the person, we examined the environment itself?

I’m a kid of the ’80s, so my formative years were spent mostly outdoors. We lived on a steep quarter-acre block, with swings and a trampoline in the backyard. My dad still uses the old four-wheeler we had, and I played in the street with my friends. For me, safety is outdoors, or in a home full of windows, surrounded by trees.

But I get it—what feels safe to me might feel unsettling for someone else. For others, indoor spaces with the buzz of activity, people, and artificial lighting might be their safe haven.

So, as I wrap up this reflection, I realise that a system relying on labels, diagnoses, and categorisation will never fully capture the human experience. The human experience is too rich, too colourful, too variable, and too influenced by often unseen, forgotten, or seemingly insignificant moments.

So, to myself, I say: it’s okay that you reacted that way. You’re safe now. Your feet are back on the grass, you see the trees, and you feel the sun on your skin. You’re good.

And to you, if this resonated in some way, how can you hold yourself with love as you navigate a world built by all of us—a world where each of us must discern what works for us and what doesn’t?

With love,
Hayley