Designing for ADHD Minds
How Light, Layout, and Texture Decide Whether I Can Function
Yesterday, I walked into a meeting room, and within minutes, the hum of the lights had me trapped in a loop of racing thoughts. My mind fragmented, bouncing between a dozen unfinished ideas, unable to land on one. Today, I sat in a café bathed in natural light, surrounded by soft textures and warm acoustics. My thoughts aligned. My body settled. My brain, usually at war with its surroundings, found peace. And in that space, I wrote this article.
I don’t just talk about ADHD-friendly design—I live it. Every single day.
For me, space is not just something I inhabit. It dictates my ability to function. A poorly designed environment can send me spiraling into sensory overload, scattered thoughts, and physical agitation. The right space? It brings me clarity, focus, and a rare kind of peace.
For architects, this is the challenge: Are you designing spaces that work for neurodivergent minds—or against them?
How Bad Design Breaks My Mind
The first time I realized architecture was a problem for me, I was a kid. I was in a classroom with its cold floors, fluorescent lights, and unrelenting angles. I couldn’t focus. My thoughts ricocheted off the hard surfaces. The grids of the walls and desks felt like a cage, trapping my mind in loops I couldn’t escape.
Fast forward to adulthood, and it hasn’t changed much. Walk into any modern office: sterile surfaces, artificial lighting, rigid layouts. Each one a battlefield for my mind.
Fluorescent lights feel like needles in my eyes. They pulse, they flicker, they hum. And the noise? It’s like static crawling under my skin. Hard angles and confined grids lock my thoughts in place.
My brain thrives on movement, but most spaces feel designed to suffocate that instinct. Sensory overwhelm builds in seconds.
The wrong textures, too much echo, chaotic noise levels—I feel it all at once, and my ability to focus collapses. It is like I can feel every single thing in the room at once, and my brain cannot filter out what is important.
I’ve walked into boardrooms and felt my brain shut down. I’ve sat in cafes and felt my thoughts expand, my mind clear, my ideas flow. And the difference between the two? The way the space was designed.
Choice matters.
The ability to adjust lighting, move to a quieter space, or have access to different textures and layouts can mean the difference between functioning well or barely functioning at all. People with ADHD often thrive when they have the ability to shape their environment to meet their cognitive needs. Yet, most spaces offer no such flexibility.
The Spaces That Work: What My Brain Craves
There are spaces where I breathe differently. Where my thoughts align instead of collide. And these spaces all have a few things in common:
· Flowing, organic layouts. The best spaces aren’t rigid boxes—they move. Open spaces, natural curves, intuitive movement. If I can flow through a space, my mind flows too.
· Natural light and diffused lighting. Harsh lights kill my focus. Natural light, warm LEDs, and layered lighting? They help me think clearly without the mental static.
· Soft, absorbent acoustics. Studies have shown that poor acoustics can reduce productivity by up to 20%, highlighting the importance of creating sound-friendly environments. The best spaces use sound-absorbing materials, controlled acoustics, and natural soundscapes to keep my brain from drowning in noise (Banbury & Berry, 2005).
· Textured, engaging materials. I need variation. Wood, stone, fabrics—anything that adds a layer of tactile grounding. Smooth, sterile spaces feel like sensory dead zones.
· Fractal patterns and Fibonacci flow. My brain recognizes natural rhythms. Spaces that mirror nature’s patterns—branching layouts, spiral staircases, Fibonacci-based proportions—align with how my mind instinctively works. Fractal patterns can be integrated into window designs, wall textures, or even the layout of walkways, creating a sense of natural flow (Taylor, Spehar, Hägerhäll, & Van Donkelaar, 2011).
I’ve felt the difference. Architects who understand this don’t just build structures. They create experiences. And for people like me, those experiences determine whether we can function at our best—or barely function at all.
User Feedback: Designing Spaces That Actually Work
The biggest mistake architects make? Assuming they know what works without asking the people who will actually use the space.
Architects should prioritize user feedback, particularly from neurodivergent individuals, to ensure that designs effectively address their needs. Conduct focus groups with neurodivergent individuals before finalizing designs. Test lighting, acoustics, and layout choices with real users. Integrate flexible design elements that allow for personal customization.
Choice is critical.
People need the ability to adjust their environments to suit their sensory needs—whether that means dimmable lighting, noise-reducing materials, or access to both open and enclosed spaces.
Flexible layouts can be achieved through modular furniture, movable walls, and adaptable lighting systems, allowing users to customize their environment based on their individual needs (Brand, 1995).
A well-designed space isn’t just a concept—it’s a conversation between the people who build it and the people who live in it.
The Bigger Picture: How Everyone Benefits
Designing for ADHD doesn’t just benefit neurodivergent individuals—it enhances the quality of life for everyone.
Improved acoustics, for instance, not only benefit those with sensory sensitivities but also create more comfortable and productive environments for all users. Flexible layouts don’t just support ADHD minds—they make spaces adaptable to a variety of work and living styles. Natural lighting reduces eye strain, improves mood, and enhances cognitive function for everyone, not just those with ADHD (Veitch & Gifford, 1996).
When architects design for neurodivergence, they create better spaces for everyone.
The Call to Architects: What Are You Designing For?
This isn’t theory. This isn’t abstract. This is my life, every single day.
For architects, the question isn’t just how do we build spaces that look good? It’s how do we build spaces that actually work for the people inside them?
Are you designing offices that enhance focus or destroy it? Are you considering how lighting, sound, and flow impact cognitive function? Are you creating environments that empower neurodivergent minds—or shut them down?
The world is built for neurotypical brains. But that world is failing people like me. The architects who recognize this, who design with neurodiversity in mind, will be the ones shaping the future.
This isn’t about accommodating a small group. It’s about designing spaces that make everyone function better. And that starts with listening to the people who live it.
So, what will you build? And why do we always have to fix the spaces you give us? Build for us. Start there.
Oooo - I feel this! This is so timely, too. Coincidentally, we are in the process of designing a home, and you put into words exactly the kind of refuge I’m hoping we can achieve. I feel like I’ve done a lot of what you’ve described in the interior finishings of each home when lived in (and the offices I’ve worked in), but I’ve never given much thought about the importance of the actual design, layout, and the “bones” of the home itself. I have an opportunity to do that now, and you gave me language to use with our architect. Thank you for that.