At the holidays, MS turns sensory input into neurological overload

The holidays have a way of turning up the volume on everything. The lights feel brighter, rooms feel busier, and even soft conversation seems amplified.

Living with multiple sclerosis (MS) has taught me that this kind of noise isn’t just sound — it’s work. It’s one of the reasons my Thanksgiving table has grown smaller over the years. These days, it’s usually just my mom, my great aunt, and me.

For a long time, I assumed this was simply who I’d become, that I’d outgrown big holidays and was now someone who preferred quieter ones. But the truth is gentler and more physiological: Holidays feel louder when you live with a neurological disease. Not emotionally loud, but neurologically, the kind that settles into your nervous system, not just your ears.

Even when a room isn’t noisy, my brain can feel like it’s wading through static. That’s one of the quieter burdens of MS. It’s not only mobility or fatigue or numbness; the disease also impacts how your brain sorts and filters the world, especially when the world decides to gather every kind of sensory input into the same moment. Thanksgiving, even in its softest form, seems to gather all those inputs at once.

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When MS turns up the volume

Noise sensitivity isn’t about volume alone. With MS, it’s not so simple. The brain’s ability to filter and prioritize sensory input, or sensory gating, can be affected by demyelination. Signals arrive more slowly or chaotically, and suddenly, a perfectly normal environment feels like a shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon.

I can remember when I’d walk into a room full of people, even family, and instantly feel my mind fracturing into at least three urgent tasks: find a quiet corner, track the noise, and pretend I wasn’t overwhelmed. Even a small gathering can trigger that internal split. The clatter of dishes, the hum of voices overlapping, the glare of kitchen lights, the scraping of chairs, the beeping of the oven, the shift in temperature when the door opens, the movement of people weaving around each other — none of these are overwhelming on their own, but together, they become a sensory pileup that my brain can’t fully sort. It’s like having too many tabs open in a browser; my brain gets lost.

When my nervous system gets overwhelmed, it’s subtle, not dramatic; a little more cognitive friction, a bit more effort required to follow a story, a little more effort to stay present, and a sense that I’m operating just behind the moment. I can feel myself running the same internal math over and over: Can I keep up with this? And that’s usually the moment I realize I’m already tired.

The invisible labor behind showing up

But noise is only half the story. The other half is what it takes to stay present inside it.

One of the most invisible parts of MS is the neurological work happening beneath the surface. Even on the calmest days, there’s a quiet layer of calculation running in the background: tracking conversations, filling in gaps when my processing slows, monitoring my balance in a busy room, and masking the fatigue that collects behind my eyes. From the outside, I might look relaxed, passing a bowl across the table. Internally, I’m tuning out static, recalibrating, and trying to stay one step ahead of feeling overstimulated.

This is why my holidays look the way they do. It’s not antisocial behavior. It’s not disinterest. It’s simply that my nervous system functions best in environments that don’t require this constant, invisible triage.

Opting for quiet

Now, I plan quieter holidays on purpose, not as a limitation, but as an act of awareness. I build in pauses and step outside for a breath of cold air when I need to reset. I let conversations unfold one at a time. I give myself permission to leave early or reserve the next day for recovery if I need it.

I’ve learned that celebration doesn’t have to be loud to be real. It just has to be something my brain can process without paying a heavy toll.

Slower holidays aren’t less meaningful. They’re just paced differently and are steadier, simpler, and quieter in the right places. Instead of battling the noise around me and wrestling with my nervous system for the privilege of keeping up, I get to be fully present with the people who matter most.

Quiet isn’t a compromise. Sometimes it’s the gift my nervous system needs to recognize the holiday at all. So, yes, this year my Thanksgiving table will be small again. But the peace that comes with it feels remarkably full.

Note: Multiple Sclerosis News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Multiple Sclerosis News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to multiple sclerosis.