When Scent Makes You Sick — About Laundry Detergent, Overstimulation, and Invisible Boundaries

I don’t think most people realize how harmful scent can be. Not just because it “smells bad” to someone, but because it overwhelms the nervous system. Because it enters your body like there’s no skin between you and the world. Because it doesn’t linger in the air — it lingers inside you.

In my case, it’s my mother’s laundry detergent.

Every time she does a load of laundry, the house fills — within seconds — with a strong artificial scent. And even though I always keep my windows open and my door shut, the smell blows straight into my room. My room — my supposed refuge — turns into a box of poison I can’t escape. The scent doesn’t just pass. It stays. Hours. It clings to the fabric, the walls, the air. And to me.

My throat burns. My nose tingles. My stomach tightens. My head pounds. And as if that wasn’t enough, my whole system goes into shutdown. I tense up. I disconnect from myself. I lose my clarity, my creativity. My body says: get out now — but I have nowhere to go. Because this is the only space I have. My childhood bedroom. Where I live, work, sleep, and survive.

For many people, scent is cozy. Comforting. A sign of fresh laundry. For me, it’s something that disables my ability to function. Not because I’m being dramatic. Not because I “don’t like it.” But because I’m autistic, highly sensitive, I have ADD, PMDD, chronic migraine, and my system processes input differently. There’s no filter. Every noise, every light, every smell enters at full volume.

And where others can say “It’s just laundry detergent,” my body says: danger. Because that’s what synthetic fragrance can trigger in sensitive systems — stress, pain, inflammation, shutdown. Layer by layer. Day after day. Until you feel nothing but that.

My man and I have been living in my childhood bedroom for years. We share a small bed we use for everything — sleeping, working, eating. We cook on a hotplate on a desk, fetch water when my mother is away, and long for nature like it’s oxygen. We dream of living off-grid in an old camper, parked somewhere quiet. Surrounded by trees. A life with rhythm, softness, space.

But for now, we’re stuck in a walled-off paved garden, surrounded by city noise, overstimulation, smells, barking, tension. And it’s not that we don’t want to adapt. But my body can’t. It’s that simple.

What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t about “being sensitive.” It’s about living in a body that has real, physical limits. My nervous system doesn’t cope the way most do. And I’m done pretending that it should.

Sometimes I wish scent were visible. So people could see how it spreads through a room. How it slips under doors. How it clings to walls and lungs and minds. So they could see my body contract. My energy drop. My thoughts disappear. So I wouldn’t have to explain it anymore.

I know my mother doesn’t mean harm. But that doesn’t make it any less heavy. Having to explain that I live in a body that can only function when it feels safe — and scent doesn’t belong in that kind of safety.

What I want to say is this:

Some people need space in order to live. Not just physical space, but sensory space. Some people need quiet, scent-free air, soft light, slow rhythms. Not as a preference — but as a survival need. And when those needs aren’t met, they don’t thrive. They endure. Quietly. With a damp washcloth over their nose. Or a scarf when outside. Or just their thoughts, curled up inside them like a smaller, safer version of themselves.

Because for some of us, freedom isn’t a luxury — it’s the ability to inhale air without pain. To have a night’s rest without toxins. To wake up without adrenaline. To live in an environment that doesn’t hurt.

I’m writing this because I know I’m not alone. And maybe you’re reading this thinking, this is me too. If so, I want you to know: you’re not crazy. You’re not being dramatic. And you don’t have to sacrifice your boundaries to make others comfortable.

You’re allowed to feel this.
You’re allowed to say this.
And you’re allowed to hope for more.

For scentless air.

For a life that meets your needs.

For living — not just enduring.