24. Less Stuff, More Exhale
You know that feeling when you walk into a space and your shoulders just... drop?
Or when you open a closet and feel immediately overwhelmed before you even register what you're seeing?
That's our nervous system calculating load.
For AuDHD brains, there's a sweet spot with physical stuff.
Too much drowns us. Too little leaves us without the tools that make our lives easier.
And finding that sweet spot? It's not about following minimalism rules. It's about designing our environment so our nervous system can actually regulate.
In This Episode:
Visual clutter creates constant mental load—our brains process everything, can't tune it out like neurotypical brains do
Every item costs us something to manage, and that cost compounds
Minimalism rules often hide ableism—what looks like "excess" is often accommodation
The key question: Does this reduce more friction than it creates?
Our bodies already know our threshold—we just need to trust that
Connect With Me:
Get the free Unmasking Menu
THE CLUTTER THAT DRAINS US
Every surface with stuff on it creates tiny decisions our brains have to process.
Do I need to deal with that? Is that important? Where does it go?
For neurotypical brains, clutter becomes invisible. They tune it out.
But AuDHD brains? We're processing everything. Autistic brains notice every detail. ADHD pulls attention to every item.
Even after our ADHD side stops consciously seeing the mess, it's still affecting us. Which makes it more dangerous—because it's silent. We don't know what it's doing to us.
This isn't just annoying. It's actively draining our capacity to function. Constant low-grade mental load running in the background while we're trying to rest, work, or just exist in our space.
WHAT RELIEF ACTUALLY FEELS LIKE
Walking into a space with clear surfaces—empty counters, tidy rooms—our brains can REST.
Like someone turned down the volume on everything.
This isn't about minimalism as aesthetic. It's about nervous system regulation.
When we only keep what we need and love, when surfaces are clear, our brains aren't constantly calculating what needs dealing with. We have capacity for what actually matters.
WHEN WE SWING TOO FAR
Then there's the opposite problem.
A friend says "grab some colored pencils" for a ritual and we literally don't have them.
Temperatures drop to the teens and our waterproof boots are packed so deep in storage that we wear summer sneakers in the snow instead. Our toes go numb. We take fewer walks, shorter walks. Miss out on the regulation we actually need.
There's a difference between not having stuff that drains us and not having stuff that supports us.
Missing regulation tools. Lacking seasonal accommodations. No supplies for what feeds us. Scrambling when we need something instead of having it ready.
Going too minimal means paying a different price—the accommodation cost of not having what our nervous system needs.
THE ACTUAL PRINCIPLE
The sweet spot: Having what genuinely supports our nervous system without the overhead of managing extra.
When we have too much:
Sensory overload from visual processing
Mental drain from constant tiny decisions
Energy spent managing instead of living
Accommodations we need hidden in chaos
When we have too little:
Missing regulation tools (weighted blanket, specific textures, fidgets)
Lacking seasonal accommodations (boots, warm layers, cooling gear)
No supplies for what feeds us (art materials, ritual objects)
Constant scrambling instead of being prepared
The key question: Does this reduce more friction than it creates?
Does having this item reduce more mental load than managing it costs?
Does it provide accommodation worth the space it takes?
Does it support something we actually do regularly?
Our threshold is different from everyone else's. This isn't about hitting some objective number. It's about calibrating to our specific nervous system.
THE ABLEISM HIDING IN MINIMALISM RULES
When we have a kettle in our van AND a kettle in our house, minimalism influencers might see consumerism.
But that's accommodation, not excess.
Someone who is not AuDHD might be able to pack and unpack easily. Remember what's in storage and retrieve it. Tolerate the friction of not having exactly what they need right where they need it.
But for us? That friction is real. That cost is high.
Having duplicates at different locations isn't indulgent—it's accessibility. The boots where we need them. Art supplies where we do rituals. Not carrying everything everywhere but having what serves us where we need it.
What minimalism rules consider "excess" often doesn't account for disabled needs.
The person who needs duplicates because getting things out of storage costs too much energy.
The person who needs specific sensory items at arm's reach.
The person whose seasonal regulation needs mean different accommodations at different times.
That's not indulgence. That's survival.
And once we recognize that ableism hiding in the minimalism rules, we can stop apologizing for designing our environment the way our brains actually need it.
FINDING OUR THRESHOLD
Questions when looking at stuff we have:
Does this reduce mental load or increase it?
Does maintaining this cost me more than not having it would?
Do I use this regularly or does it sit there taking up brain space?
Is this an accommodation tool or am I keeping it "just in case"?
Side note on "just in case": Sometimes just in case is valid. When we need a physical solution to a problem, it's easier to pull from a stash than go to the store looking for something specific and risk getting overwhelmed.
Questions when considering what might help:
What friction do I hit repeatedly that a specific item would solve?
What seasonal accommodations does my nervous system need?
What tools support my regulation or creativity?
What would I actually reach for versus what sounds good in theory?
This isn't a one-time purge. It's ongoing calibration.
Our needs change with seasons, living situations, capacity levels. We keep adjusting. Keep checking in.
And we let the felt side guide us—the part that knows when something is too much or too little. Where we let it be an evolving thing we don't always have to get right.
BEYOND PHYSICAL STUFF
This principle applies to life threads too.
Every item costs us something to manage. Every thread in our lives costs us something to manage.
Our ADHD side wants to say yes to everything. Our Autistic side gets overwhelmed by too many things.
The half-finished project. The opportunity we said maybe to. The commitment we're not sure about. Those are all threads taking up mental space even when we're not actively working on them.
Same questions apply:
Does this reduce more friction than it creates?
Am I actually moving this forward or is it just taking up brain space?
Is this aligned with what I'm focusing on this season?
BODIES THAT REMEMBER
For most of human history, people didn't accumulate because they moved.
If you're going between summer grounds and winter grounds, you carry what serves you. The rest gets left behind.
Our bodies remember that. The lightness of it. The clarity of knowing exactly what we have.
That sensory sensitivity that makes clutter overwhelming? In a different context, that's useful intelligence.
We're the ones who feel the weight of too many possessions before it becomes a problem. Who know instinctively when we're carrying more than we can manage.
That's not being overly sensitive. That's being attuned.
That's ancient intelligence—our nervous system calculating: Can I hold this? Is this manageable? Does this serve me or weigh me down?
THE KEY INSIGHT
Our bodies already know our threshold. The amount of stuff we can hold comfortably. What supports us versus drains us.
Maybe we need way less than we have now.
Maybe we need a few key accommodations we're currently missing.
Maybe we need duplicates at different locations because that's accessibility, not excess.
Whatever our threshold is—we can trust it.
That knowing is older than productivity culture. Older than consumer culture. Our nervous system remembering what it feels like to not be weighed down.