Why Sensory Rooms in Preschools Might Be Doing More Harm Than Good

Over the last few years, sensory rooms have become increasingly popular in preschools and primary schools. Across social media, we often see posts showcasing beautifully equipped spaces filled with glowing lights, soft cushions, fibre optic strands, textured panels and swings. These rooms are frequently funded through community grants or fundraising efforts, and there’s no doubt that the motivation behind them is rooted in care and inclusion.

Still, one uncomfortable truth remains: a sensory room without a trained sensory integration specialist can unintentionally cause more problems than it solves. In fact, for children who are already overstimulated—as many in early years settings are—these spaces can quickly become overwhelming.

The root of the issue lies in a misunderstanding of how sensory systems actually work. Sensory integration is not about offering children as many sensations as possible. It’s about carefully matching the type, intensity and timing of sensory input to the specific needs of the individual child. Each item in a sensory room has a defined purpose. A weighted blanket, a vibrating cushion, or a wobble board can all be powerful tools—but only when used appropriately, and only when there is a clear reason to choose that input for a particular child. Without this understanding, sensory rooms risk becoming chaotic environments that overexcite, confuse, or even distress the children who use them.

One example from practice makes this point clear. In a preschool I supported, educators were concerned about a two-year-old boy who showed several difficulties. He struggled to maintain balance while climbing stairs or stepping onto elevated surfaces, and often played in an unusually rough way, both with toys and with other children. The staff assumed he had sensory processing difficulties and began exposing him daily to tactile activities—such as sand play and textured materials—as well as spending time with him on the swing.

Weeks passed, and nothing changed. The child remained unsteady, frustrated, and unpredictable in his social interactions. This is not surprising. The behaviours described by the educators had little to do with the tactile system. Instead, they indicated challenges with balance and visual-motor coordination. In this case, swinging might have actually worsened the problem, as vestibular input can be disorganising for children whose balance systems are not yet well developed.

This kind of mismatch happens more often than we like to admit. A well-equipped room without professional guidance can easily become a source of overstimulation, confusion, or even sensory shutdown. That’s why the most powerful thing any early years setting can do is not to buy more equipment—but to build knowledge.

Understanding the basic functions of sensory systems allows educators to observe behaviour differently. A child who constantly seeks movement might not be “hyperactive”—they might be trying to regulate their vestibular system. A child who avoids messy play might not be “fussy”—they may be hypersensitive to tactile input. Recognising these patterns helps educators respond with purpose, choosing activities and strategies that actually support the child’s regulation and development.

In many preschools, this shift in perspective has brought significant results. Instead of relying on designated sensory rooms, educators are creating calm corners and quiet zones within their classrooms—small spaces where children can retreat, regulate, and rejoin the group when ready. These are not fancy or expensive. A soft mat, a few well-chosen textures, a simple tent or beanbag, and a consistent approach to emotional safety can be more effective than a fully equipped sensory room.

Another practice that has proven particularly useful is the use of sensory-motor stories. These are structured, engaging narratives designed to combine movement, rhythm, and sensory input in a playful and meaningful way. Children are invited to move through a story—crawling through imaginary tunnels, jumping over rivers, tiptoeing past sleeping animals, or squeezing through narrow spaces. Each movement is selected for its sensory impact, whether it activates the proprioceptive system, stimulates balance, or calms the nervous system. What makes these stories special is that they do not require any special equipment. They can be done in a circle time space, in a hallway, or even outdoors. And yet, they offer rich opportunities for sensory regulation, body awareness, and group participation.

These stories are not a replacement for professional therapy, but they are a powerful everyday tool for educators and parents who want to support sensory development in a structured, accessible way. When used regularly, they help children develop better coordination, attention, and emotional balance—all within the rhythm and flow of play.

In conclusion, while sensory rooms may look impressive and offer some benefits when used with expertise, they are not the only—or the best—way to support children’s sensory needs. What matters most is not the room itself, but the knowledge and intention behind every interaction. Sensory development happens every day, in every part of the classroom, and in every relationship a child experiences. When we understand that, we can move from overstimulation toward true regulation, from equipment toward connection, and from confusion toward clarity.