Autistic nesting is a concept I have written about before; the way we curate physical and sensory spaces to sustain our flow and manage transitions in a world not built with our needs in mind. Nesting is not simply decorating, nor is it only about comfort. It is the active creation of an environment that speaks to the monotropic mind one that allows attention to move without tearing itself apart in forced transitions.
Autistic Nesting as the Physical Architecture of Lilipadding
Nesting
This is a word that is often thrown around in child care circles and animal husbandry, but in my Autistic and ADHD world, it has a slightly different meaning.
I have a safe space, and this space is equipped to meet all of my needs, sensory, sleep, work, nutritional. There are no limits to eat I keep within this safe space. To most, it appears that I live in a state of chaos, but in actual fact I have my needs fulfilled in this space, and what appears to be chaos is actually a completely curated space. I know where every item I need resides.
What does this look like in practice?
My nest starts with a sleeping space. A comfortable bed with plenty of pillows and a duvet that doesn’t make me too hot. I have a galaxy projector that projects colours and lasers onto the ceiling. I have various LED lights, many of which respond to the television and soundbar at the back of my desk.
Synchronised visuals and sound are essential sensory needs.
My oil diffuser runs in the evening, often filling my room with the smell of sweet peas or lavender, sometimes cedarwood. This allows me control of my olfactory sense.
On my bed can be found an assortment of snacks, books I am reading, my medication, and notebooks. I also have a tripod with a light ring next to my bed; the ability to take notes or record on a whim is essential for my impulsive mind. The multiple books mean that I can read and research in accordance with my attention hyperactivity, which often needs me to hop from book to book rather than focus on one at a time.
My computer sits off to either side of the TV, moved into place during the day to allow me to work. This is a space where I often crash and pass out rather than intentionally fall asleep, as such, nothing is removed from its spot before I sleep. My days are busy, and I need to know it won’t matter if I crash at the end of the day.
This is my space. It allows me to have control over one small part of a traumatic and offensive world.
To build our nests is to claim ownership over our own environments.
Autistic Nesting as the Physical Architecture of Lilipadding
Nesting as Architecture
lilipadding is the practice of stepping from one small safe place to another
Lilipadding Through Autistic Burnout: A Practical Guide to Rehabilitation – Emergent Divergence
Think of nesting as the physical design of the lilipad. A hostile environment might encourage us to leap too soon or too far in order to escape the space we are in. A well-nested space creates channels where one can rest and make careful planned steps to the next lilipad.
For example, in my own life, I create nests within my home; corners where sensory input is low and items I might need are available with minimal transition. My writing desk flows naturally into my bookshelves, which flow into a soft space where I can decompress. Each area links to the next with intentionality. The environment itself invites me to move gently between them, reducing the rupture of transitions. Too the outside of observer it might look like chaos, but to me it is familiarity and safety.
Nesting is, then, an architecture of continuity. It is about building spaces where one state of being can shift into the next without collapse. It transforms the external world into something that holds our monotropic flow, rather than tearing it apart.
Autistic Nesting as the Physical Architecture of Lilipadding
Burnout as the Collapse of Architecture
When Autistic people experience burnout, one of the most painful aspects is the sense of disconnection. The lilipads become further distanced from us. What once flowed no longer does. The architecture of the nest has collapsed, sometimes physically, as we lose the capacity to maintain our spaces. Also relationally, as connections with others fall apart. It is also internal, as the sense of continuity with ourselves breaks down.
This is why recovery from burnout is not just about resting. Rest alone cannot rebuild the nest. What we need is the chance to re-establish our architecture of lilipads, to reconstruct the bridges and spaces that let us live between moments without constant rupture. Nesting is therefore not only a preventative act, but also a rehabilitating one.
Autistic Nesting as the Physical Architecture of Lilipadding
Nesting as a Philosophy of Compassion
To understand nesting as architecture is to reframe compassion. Compassion is not simply an action performed by others, it is the environment we are invited to inhabit and the space we provide to ourselves. When institutions or communities deny us the chance to nest, they deny us continuity and felt safety. They leave us drowning in the water while we desperately scramble for the nearest lilipad upon which to survive.
By contrast, when we are allowed to nest, we can move with more ease between the fragments of life. By curating our space we have created a safe space from which to explore the possibility of new skills and comfort zones.
Autistic Nesting as the Physical Architecture of Lilipadding
Nesting in Caves
The cave primordial learning space makes a great nest.
In schools, we find that the cave form of learning is never a priority. This is a serious problem because the millions of dollars spent on many new schools will do little to improve educational outcomes if they are built without cave spaces.
The Language of School Design : Design Patterns for 21st Century Schools : Nair, Prakash
We will do little to change educational outcomes without cave spaces.
