In a waiting room, there’s nowhere to go. I’m mentally tapping an impatient foot. The room is quiet. *Too quiet. *Every small sound—a paper rustle, a cough down the hall—stands out. It’s the loud sound of silence. Time stretches. I’m listening for my name, or for something to change, and nothing does. That kind of quiet can feel harder than walking down a busy sidewalk. On the sidewalk, there’s noise and movement, but there’s also direction. I’m moving toward something. The sounds pass by and fade. My body falls into rhythm without effort.
At first glance, this doesn’t make much sense. We’re used to thinking that less noise and less movement should feel more calming. But sensory comfort isn’t just about how much stimulation there is. It’s about whether the [nervous…
In a waiting room, there’s nowhere to go. I’m mentally tapping an impatient foot. The room is quiet. *Too quiet. *Every small sound—a paper rustle, a cough down the hall—stands out. It’s the loud sound of silence. Time stretches. I’m listening for my name, or for something to change, and nothing does. That kind of quiet can feel harder than walking down a busy sidewalk. On the sidewalk, there’s noise and movement, but there’s also direction. I’m moving toward something. The sounds pass by and fade. My body falls into rhythm without effort.
At first glance, this doesn’t make much sense. We’re used to thinking that less noise and less movement should feel more calming. But sensory comfort isn’t just about how much stimulation there is. It’s about whether the nervous system can stay oriented. Neuroscience offers a useful way to think about this—not in terms of volume, but in terms of coherence.
The brain is constantly trying to answer a simple question: What’s happening next?
In the waiting room, that question hangs unanswered. On the sidewalk, it’s answered with every step. When that question has an answer—when events unfold in a way that makes sense—perception feels smooth. When it doesn’t, attention stays suspended. In the waiting room, the cues are thin. Nothing is clearly starting or ending. There’s no sense of progression. Silence doesn’t signal rest; it signals an uneasy waiting. The nervous system stays tuned for change. On the sidewalk, there’s more happening, but it’s organized. Movement has direction. Sounds belong somewhere. Even unpredictability has structure. The brain can track what’s going on without constantly checking and recalibrating.
Not Sameness or Control
Predictability doesn’t mean sameness or control. It doesn’t require things to stay the same—only that changes make sense and don’t come out of nowhere. Timing is consistent. Signals match their sources. Events unfold in context. When that happens, perception can feel stable—even in busy environments. When it doesn’t, even low-stimulation spaces can feel unsettled. I see this in others, and I experience this as an AuDHD (autism+ADHD). Predictability is often framed as a preference, but in practice, it functions more like a stabilizer. It helps the nervous system keep its footing in time and space.
When that stabilizing structure is missing, attention stays partially unanchored. It’s often described by people with autism, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), and AuDHD as feeling restless, keyed up, or unable to settle—not because anything is overwhelming, but because nothing quite resolves. This isn’t about avoiding stimulation. It’s about maintaining coherence. This is also why quiet isn’t always restorative. And it’s why advice like “Just wear noise-canceling headphones” doesn’t always help. Quieter isn’t always easier. Headphones can turn the volume down, but they don’t always make a situation feel settled or easier to deal with.
Bounded Silence
Silence can be calming when it’s bounded—when you know how long it will last, or what comes next. But silence without markers can feel open-ended. Small sounds take on more weight. The body stays poised for interruption. I’ve seen this in online meetings. Turn-taking becomes uncertain. It’s hard to tell who’s about to speak, whether you can jump in and speak, or whether a pause means someone is thinking or simply muted. Audio may arrive slightly late or flattened. There isn’t much sensory input, but there also isn’t much structure. The nervous system stays alert, waiting for a signal that never quite arrives.
*Low stimulation doesn’t automatically mean stability. *What tends to help are small changes that increase clarity rather than reduce input: clear transitions, consistent timing, cues that match what’s happening, advance notice of changes. These don’t quiet the world. They make it legible.
I tend to think of these not as accommodations, but as design choices—ways of helping perception stay organized rather than suspended. When sensory strain is framed only as a problem of intensity, the solution is always to reduce stimulation. A focus on predictability offers a different lens. It asks whether an environment supports orientation, flow, and resolution.
As you move through your own spaces, it may be worth noticing not just what feels loud or busy, but what feels unfinished or unclear. Where does perception settle into rhythm? Where does it stay waiting?
Sometimes what the nervous system needs most isn’t quiet—but coherence.
References
Pellicano, E., & Burr, D. (2012). When the world becomes “too real”: A Bayesian explanation of autistic perception. Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 16(10), 504–510. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tics.2012.08.009
Stein, B. E., & Stanford, T. R. (2008). Multisensory integration: Current issues from the perspective of the single neuron. Nature Reviews Neuroscience, 9(4), 255–266. https://doi.org/10.1038/nrn2331
Huron, D. (2006). Sweet Anticipation: Music and the Psychology of Expectation. MIT Press.