I didn’t realize I was a highly sensitive person until my mid-thirties. For years, I just thought I was “too much” – too easily overwhelmed, too sensitive to noise, too bothered by tags in clothing, too affected by other people’s moods. Learning there was actually a neurological explanation for why I experience the world so intensely was honestly life-changing. About 20% of us are born this way – with nervous systems that process sensory information more deeply and thoroughly than others.
The revelation coincided with my journey into minimalism, and the connection between the two quickly became obvious. Creating calm, simplified spaces wasn’t just aesthetically pleasing for me – it was practically medicinal for my overstimulated nervous system.
Let me tell you, living as a highly sensitive person (HSP) in our chaotic, sensory-overloading world can be… well, a bit much sometimes. There are days when the overhead lights at the supermarket, the persistent hum of the refrigerator, and the scratchy tag on my new jumper create a perfect storm that leaves me feeling like I’m about to crawl out of my skin. And that’s before adding in the emotional aspects – absorbing everyone else’s feelings like some kind of empathic sponge can be properly exhausting.
My flat used to be a reflection of my internal chaos. Not dirty, mind you – but busy. Crammed bookshelves, decorative items covering every surface, walls full of art, cupboards stuffed with things I rarely used but couldn’t bear to part with. I didn’t realize how much all this visual information was constantly taxing my already overworked nervous system.
The shift started small. I was having a particularly overwhelming day and found myself sitting on my bedroom floor, back against the wall, staring at my cluttered dresser top. Without really thinking about it, I started removing items – placing them in a box, just to give my eyes somewhere neutral to rest. The immediate sense of relief was startling. It was as if someone had turned down the volume in a room I hadn’t even realized was too loud.
That evening, I cleared my bedside table too, leaving just a lamp and the book I was reading. I slept better than I had in weeks. Something clicked – perhaps the environment I’d created was working against my sensitive nervous system rather than supporting it.
This isn’t to say I immediately became one of those minimalists who lives with three shirts and a plant (though I’ve nothing against them). My approach has been more gradual, more forgiving, and specifically tailored to address sensory sensitivities rather than achieving some Instagram-worthy aesthetic of emptiness.
For me, minimalism as an HSP isn’t about having fewer things for the sake of it – it’s about creating spaces that don’t overwhelm my senses. It means different things in different rooms. My kitchen still has plenty of tools and ingredients because cooking is a joy, but they’re organized in a way that limits visual stimulation. My living room maintains some carefully chosen decorative elements that bring me genuine pleasure rather than just occupying space.
The bathroom was actually my biggest transformation. I used to have dozens of products – face creams promising miracles, hair treatments I used twice a year, makeup I rarely wore but kept “just in case.” Beyond the physical clutter, many of these products contained synthetic fragrances that I now realize were subtly irritating my sensitive nose all day, every day. Streamlining to fragrance-free basics not only cleared my countertops but also reduced my overall sensory load.
I’ve found certain principles particularly helpful for creating HSP-friendly spaces:
First, I pay attention to sensory inputs. This isn’t just about clutter – it’s about textures, sounds, smells, and light quality. Harsh overhead lighting got replaced with softer lamps. Scratchy fabrics were donated. I invested in double-glazing for my bedroom window to reduce street noise. My washing powder is now unscented. These changes might seem small individually, but collectively they’ve dramatically reduced the background sensory static I was constantly processing.
Second, I’ve created transition zones. As an HSP, moving between environments (like from the stimulating outside world to my home) can be jarring. My entryway now serves as a decompression chamber of sorts – a place to literally and figuratively drop the external world before entering my sanctuary. There’s a comfortable chair, hooks for my coat and bag, and absolutely nothing unnecessary. Sometimes I sit there for five minutes after coming home, just breathing and adjusting.
Third, I’ve embraced the concept of “enough” – which for an HSP often means “less than what others might consider normal.” I used to have five different throw pillows on my sofa because that’s what looked right in the home décor magazines. Now I have two extremely soft ones that I actually enjoy touching. My walls have more empty space, which gives my eyes places to rest. My cupboards have breathing room.
The digital realm needed similar treatment. I’m sure many HSPs will relate to the particular hell that is notification overload. Each ping, ding and pop-up alert was like a little electric shock to my system. I’ve muted nearly everything, removed social media apps from my phone, and created specific times to check email rather than leaving it perpetually open. My phone stays on “do not disturb” most of the time, and honestly, I don’t miss the constant interruptions one bit.
The process hasn’t always been straightforward. There have been challenges – particularly around sentimental items. When you feel things deeply (as HSPs tend to), objects can carry emotional weight that others might not understand. I couldn’t apply the standard minimalist advice of “if it doesn’t spark joy, toss it” because sometimes items sparked complicated feelings that weren’t quite joy but still seemed important to process.
For these items, I created what I call “sensitivity containers” – limited space (like a specific box or shelf) where I keep things that carry emotional importance but don’t need to be out in my daily environment. Having physical boundaries helps me honor these connections without letting them take over my space.
I’ve also had to navigate relationships with non-HSP loved ones who don’t always understand why having three different sets of holiday decorations feels overwhelming to me, or why I might need to leave a gathering early when the sensory input becomes too much. Setting these boundaries has been work, but ultimately has deepened my relationships rather than limiting them.
The benefits have extended far beyond just feeling more comfortable in my space. With less sensory input to process at home, I have more capacity for engaging with the world outside it. My sleep has improved dramatically. I find I’m more present in conversations because I’m not simultaneously processing background noise or visual clutter. My creativity has flourished in spaces where my mind isn’t constantly interrupted by environmental stimuli.
Perhaps most significantly, I’ve stopped feeling apologetic about my sensitivity. Creating a home that honors rather than fights against my neurological makeup has been an act of self-acceptance. My sensitivity isn’t a weakness to overcome – it’s simply how I’m wired, with both challenges and gifts.
For any fellow HSPs reading this, I’d encourage you to consider how your environment might be affecting your nervous system. You don’t need to transform everything overnight. Start with creating just one calm zone – perhaps your bedroom or a favorite reading nook. Pay attention to how different sensory elements make you feel. Trust your body’s responses – if something feels overwhelming, it probably is, regardless of whether others would find it so.
And remember that minimalism for the highly sensitive person isn’t about following someone else’s rules for what your space should look like. It’s about creating environments that support your unique sensory profile. Your version might include collections of books that bring you genuine joy, or art that speaks to your soul, or specialized equipment for hobbies that fulfill you. The goal isn’t emptiness – it’s intentionality and sensory harmony.
I still have days when the world feels too bright, too loud, too much. But now, instead of that feeling following me home, I have created a sanctuary where my sensitive system can reset and recover. In a world that often seems designed for less sensitive nervous systems, that’s no small thing. It’s everything, really.
