Building a Home for our Neurospicy clan
From the outside, our house looked perfect. Pretty even. But inside? Living there felt like wearing shoes two sizes too small — uncomfortable, frustrating, and impossible to ignore.
We’d already been through one build before, so when that house didn’t quite work, we thought the fix was simple: sell, move, start fresh. Easy, right? Wrong. The new house was beautiful… but every day inside it felt like swimming upstream.
For a while we wondered: Is this depression? Anxiety? Are we just not coping?
Turns out, it wasn’t that at all. It was autism.
The other two-thirds of our family are Autistic, and suddenly the puzzle pieces clicked into place. The textures, the lighting, the way air moved (or didn’t), the constant sense that the house was pushing against us instead of holding us — it all made sense. The house wasn’t wrong, exactly. It just wasn’t right for us.
When the House Won’t Budge
We hung in there for 18 months, trying little fixes. New lamps here, a rug there, constant tinkering. But the truth was undeniable: no matter what we did, the house wouldn’t bend to our brains and bodies. We couldn’t renovate our way out of this.
What we needed wasn’t just a new house. We needed a new blueprint.
Starting From Scratch
This time, we came at it differently. We searched for land that felt good before we even thought about floorplans:
☀️ The sun at the right angle.
🌳 Trees and sky instead of neighbours.
🌬 A place where the nervous system exhaled.
When we walked through display homes, it wasn’t about square footage. It was: Does this room feel too big? Too small? Does it wrap around us like a hug or leave us jangling? Even the vibe of the builders mattered — were they listening? Transparent? Did they feel safe? Because we weren’t just building walls. We were curating flow, trust, and regulation.
Designing for Brains Like Ours
We carried a few golden rules into every decision:
Predictability > size. One design had the toilet down the hall from the ensuite. Nope. Mornings needed to flow, not zigzag.
Sensory first. No “big lights” blasting us. Warm bulbs, dimmers, ceiling fans, refrigerated cooling, proper heating. Every texture tested.
Reduce friction. From bin placement to shower hobs (or lack of them), we asked: Will this make life smoother for our brains and bodies?
The goal wasn’t luxury. It was ease.
The Small Touches With Big Impact
Sound: Softer carpet underlay so stimming isn’t “shhh’d.” Tiles and flooring that absorb noise.
Light: Blackouts for rest, sheer curtains for softness.
Materials: Wood, wool, leather — grounding, calm, touchable.
Zoning: Clear spaces for work, rest, play, and solo regulation.
Organisation: Visible storage where we need to see it, hidden storage where clutter would overwhelm.
Technology: Lamps on one remote. Smart security for peace of mind.
Every choice was a vote for calmer days.
The Reality Check
Of course, none of this was standard. We had to explain, advocate, and sometimes flat-out push back when a “default” design didn’t work for neurodivergent living. It wasn’t just about our house anymore — it was about showing designers that different brains need different blueprints.
And yes, it cost more upfront. But the cost of not doing it? Daily friction, stress, and exhaustion. We’d already lived that. We weren’t going back.
Coming Home
Now, as the walls rise, so does our relief. This house isn’t just a structure — it’s a nervous system support plan. It’s safety and softness and flow.
The big lesson? A house doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s to be “perfect.” It just needs to feel like yours.
So if you’ve ever stood in a “dream home” and wondered why it feels impossible to live in, maybe the problem isn’t you. Maybe it’s the house. And maybe the kindest thing you can do for your family is build a space that lets you all exhale.