NeuroExplorer

Tag: autism

  • What It’s Really Like Car Shopping as a Neurodivergent Person

    What It’s Really Like Car Shopping as a Neurodivergent Person

    Everyone around you is excited for you because it’s a new car. It’s shiny, bright, and packed with exciting new features. Your last car was from the 2000s, and you were lucky if the key fob unlocked the doors. Now cars basically drive themselves, talk to you about everything, and yell at you when they think you’re in danger.

    People think buying a car is exciting.

    However, when you’re autistic, ADHD, or otherwise neurodivergent… think again.

    I bought my last car in the 2010s, and when I think back to that experience, it was nerve-racking. Even now, just thinking about it can make the anxiety start creeping back in. I made it through mostly because a family member told me what to do, what to say, and where to sign.

    Roughly 13 years later, it was time to look for a new car. I had put it off for as long as possible because, well, I hate making choices, big life decisions, and pushy people.
    Unfortunately, all three come included with car shopping. And if you’re neurodivergent, the process often feels like it was designed by people who love quick decisions, constant social interaction, and high-pressure environments.

    Enter the Salespeople

    I visited countless showrooms, looking at different vehicles, sitting in them, and trying to understand what were essentially computers on wheels. And when you’re in a showroom, you know you’re eventually going to run into a salesperson. Some dealerships let us wander around long enough to actually look at cars in peace.

    Others?

    We were pounced on within 30 seconds of walking through the door, as if they all stand outside their offices waiting for unsuspecting customers to enter.

    The conversations were always the same.

    • “What are you looking for?”
    • “You should check this one out.”
    • “Do I have a deal for you!”
    • “You’re in luck, one just came in!”

    And then comes the phrase that immediately makes me want to find the nearest emergency exit:

    “Why don’t we head over to my office?”

    The second that happens, I feel trapped. Like I’ve entered a timeshare presentation and may never be allowed to leave.

    Sensory Overload on Four Wheels

    On top of all that, there’s everything else happening around you. The bright showroom lights that make it feel like you’re performing on stage. Multiple salespeople talking at once as they work their deals. Someone explaining twenty different trim levels for the same vehicle as if there will be a quiz later.

    And, of course, the salesperson asking: “So, what do you think?”

    Every.
    Thirty.
    Seconds.

    The truth is, I don’t know what I think. I’m still trying to process the previous ten things you told me.

    The Test Drive

    And don’t even get me started on the test drive. I’m perfectly comfortable driving my own car. I’m significantly less comfortable driving an unfamiliar vehicle while someone sits beside me firing off facts, features, and sales pitches at a rate my brain cannot keep up with.

    I masked my way through a test drive.

    By “test drive,” I mean I drove around the block in a vehicle that was far more high-tech than anything I’d ever owned while a salesperson enthusiastically explained a million different features.

    Meanwhile, my brain was occupied with much more important questions:

    How do I start this thing?
    Why is it beeping?
    What button did I just press?
    Am I still in the lane?
    Can I focus on driving without accidentally activating something that starts the self drive mode?

    The salesperson was evaluating whether I liked the vehicle. I was evaluating whether I could safely make it back to the dealership parking lot.

    Nobody Talks About The Sounds

    Everyone talks about horsepower. The different types of trims you can get. How you can change the colours or the style of car. Nobody talks about the beeping.

    Why does every modern vehicle need to make so many noises?

    Seatbelt reminder. Beep
    Lane departure warning. Beep
    Parking sensors. Beep
    Door open warning. Beep
    Driver attention. Beep
    A warning that there is a warning. Beep, Beep, Beep!

    For some people these are helpful. For others, it’s hard to settle into a drive when the car seems determined to remind you every thirty seconds that something, somewhere, requires your immediate attention.

    The Pressure to Decide

    What surprised me most wasn’t the sensory overload. It was the pressure. The constant expectation that I should know immediately whether this was the car for me.

    • “What do you think?”
    • “Can we make a deal today?”
    • “This incentive ends soon.”
    • “This offer might not be available tomorrow.”
    • “What can I do, to get you in this car today?”

    As a neurodivergent person, that’s almost the exact opposite of what I need. I need time, time to process, time to compare. Time to think about how I actually felt in the vehicle once my nervous system isn’t busy trying to survive the experience.

    The more pressure I felt to make a decision, the less confident I became in making one at all. It was a direct correlation, the more pressure I felt, the more I wanted to leave.

    The pressure doesn’t stop when you leave the showroom either. Once they have your phone number or email address, the follow-up begins. Text messages. Emails. Calls. Reminders. Check-ins. For someone already overwhelmed by the decision-making process, it can feel like the sales pitch never actually ends.

    More Than Just a Car

    By the time I got home after visiting all these showrooms, I was pretty sure we’d survived a sensory endurance challenge. Unfortunately, I was no closer to finding the right car. Because as a neurodivergent person, I don’t just need a car that “looks good.”

    I need a car that fits my sensory needs.
    I need comfortable seats and seatbelt especially for longer drives.
    I need a space where I feel safe.
    I need controls that make sense to me.
    I need low noise and fewer distractions.
    I need a dashboard that isn’t overwhelming.

    And perhaps most importantly, I need a sales experience that doesn’t leave me feeling like I need five to ten business days to recover afterward. Because for some of us, the hardest part of buying a car isn’t choosing the vehicle.

    It’s surviving the process long enough to figure out whether we actually like it.

    Why Going Home Was Part of the Process

    One thing I wish more salespeople understood is that leaving doesn’t mean I’m not interested. It doesn’t mean I didn’t like you, your dealership or even the car. I got so many “sad” face moments. It simply means I’m processing.

    My best decisions and honestly, most of my decisions, rarely happen in the moment.

    They happen later, when I’m sitting at home and looking at my notes or comparing my spreadsheets. Replaying the experience in my head or with trusted people in my life.

    Once the sensory overload is gone, I can finally figure out what I actually think, feel, and need. For this to happen, I need to go home. I don’t need the pressure to decide on the spot.

    Congratulations – You made a decision!

    So, you made the decision, you chose the one you wanted. You went in the dealership; you did your best to ignore the salespeople and stuck to the one you wanted. You went into that scary office, you waited, read the paperwork, tried your very best to get a discount. Waited for that “game” where the salesperson goes to their manager and negotiates on your behalf (or so they say). Then you signed the paperwork. Now you get to go see the financing people…

    More pressure and More decisions!

    The salespeople? That’s just the opening mission. The finance manager is the final boss, and they’re about to hit you with a combo attack of warranties, protection packages, and payment plans. If salespeople are trained to help you choose a vehicle, finance managers seem trained to help you make twelve more decisions immediately after you’ve already exhausted your decision-making abilities.

    Warranties, not just yes or no, but levels of warranties, number of years, number of kilometres. Extra protection, again what level? Oh, what about adding extra to your vehicle? They have it, things you never even thought of, don’t worry they have. Then finally if you’re financing, picking the number of years and percentages.

    All this, after you thought you were done!

    Delivery Day!

    The day has arrived; you finished all your decisions. All that’s left is picking up the car. I went to pick up the new car, not sure what to expect. I was rushed from one room to another, signing paper after paper. I think when all was said and done, I signed over 15 spots. I was handed sets of fobs and then ushered to my new car. Here the salesperson says to me “Let me show you the car.” He then proceeds to talk to me for 15 minutes about all the features it can do, and pushes buttons on the wheel, the dash and the navigation system. All while being very excited for me. He takes my phone and has me download an app, then connects it to the car and says, “you’re all set!”

    At this point he brings us back into the dealership with the financing person and shakes our hands and says “well, you look a bit happier now.”Not knowing that this whole time I was really just over stimulated and wanting to run out of there and never have to answer another question again!

    What I Wish They Knew…

    In the end, I got a car. I made it through the sales floors, the salespeople, the financing questions, the text messages, phone calls, and emails. I recovered from the pressure, the questions, and the endless decisions. I learned how to drive this computer on wheels, and I even learned a thing or two about new cars and their features.

    What I wish car dealerships and their staff knew is that, for many neurodivergent people, shopping for a car isn’t just a financial decision, it’s a full-on challenge. It’s a social challenge, a sensory challenge, and a decision-making challenge all rolled into one.

    When someone says they need extra time, wants to go home to think about it, asks a lot of questions, or doesn’t ask any at all, maybe they don’t seem excited about it, or perhaps they don’t even smile. That doesn’t mean they’re uninterested.

    Sometimes it means they’re processing. It might mean they’re experiencing sensory overload. Or they might simply be doing their best in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar environment.

    Just try giving them a little extra space, time, and grace. For many neurodivergent people, that can make all the difference. And when they are ready to make a decision, they’ll remember the dealership that respected the way they process the world.

    – Tanya

  • From Masking to Living: The Power of Embracing Authenticity

    From Masking to Living: The Power of Embracing Authenticity

    Alright, let’s talk about masking.

    What Is Masking?

    If you’re autistic, chances are you’ve been doing it your whole life, maybe without even realizing it. I didn’t. I just thought I was really good at adapting. Masking is basically when autistic people consciously or unconsciously hide parts of themselves to fit social expectations.

    Honestly, I spent years trying to be the perfect version of “normal.” Which is hilarious now, because I’ve finally realized there is no such thing as normal. Everyone masks to some extent. People have their “friend” mask, their “job interview” mask, their “meeting the in-laws” mask. The version of you in Vegas with your friends is probably not the exact same version showing up at a serious business meeting pretending to know what “synergy” means.

    When Masking Becomes Survival

    The difference is autistic masking often goes way beyond that. For me, it was survival.
    I could jump between groups like a social chameleon. Sports team? Nailed it. Top grades? Yep. Party girl? Oh, absolutely. But looking back, it felt less like being myself and more like method acting.

    Costume. Script. Rehearsed lines. Cue the awkward fake laugh.
    It wasn’t until a couple years ago, and yes, I’m 42 now, that I was intensively diagnosed:

    Autistic.

    Which honestly explained… basically everything.
    Looking back, I had different versions of myself for different people. It wasn’t fake because the personalities were all still me. But they were edited versions. Carefully filtered versions. Socially acceptable versions.

    I rehearsed everything.

    • How to talk
    • How long to make eye contact
    • How to laugh without sounding weird
    • How to stand
    • How to exist without attracting attention

    The Exhaustion of Performing Normal

    Apparently there are all these unspoken social rules everyone else just magically understands. Meanwhile I’m over here trying to calculate the correct amount of eye contact like it’s a hostage negotiation.

    Too much eye contact? Creepy.
    Too little? Suspicious.
    Perfect amount? Who knows. Apparently neurotypical people are born with this information pre-installed.
    And small talk? Absolutely not.

    “How about this weather?”
    Sir, I do not care about the weather. I care about why grocery stores rearrange aisles without warning and how spreadsheets are unfairly underrated.

    Masking is basically showing up to social situations pretending everything feels natural when internally you’re running a full emergency operating system.

    You nod at the right moments. Smile on cue. Throw in a “haha totally” every few minutes so people know you’re alive. Meanwhile your brain is busy replaying every sentence you’ve said since 2007.

    • Did I sound rude?
    • Too excited?
    • Too monotone?
    • Was that joke weird?
    • Was that hug too long?
    • Did I accidentally beep boop like a malfunctioning robot during conversation?

    And the wild part is people often think you’re okay socially.

    Meanwhile you leave the interaction mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted like you just completed customer service during Black Friday.
    Because masking is exhausting.

    It’s not just pretending to like small talk or forcing eye contact. It’s wearing a mask over your entire identity. After enough years, you don’t even know where the performance ends and you begin.

    And honestly? That part gets lonely.

    You can have friends. You can look social. But deep down, it feels like nobody fully knows you because you’re constantly adjusting yourself to match the room.
    Internally? Absolutely fighting for your life in a loud restaurant while pretending you’re fine.

    Learning to Unmask

    But things changed for me once I started unmasking.
    Not in some dramatic movie scene where I suddenly became my authentic self overnight. It was slower. Awkward. Slightly chaotic.

    More like:
    “You know what? I’m just going to be honest.”
    And then five minutes later accidentally explaining my deep emotional connection to dual monitors.

    Unmasking doesn’t mean throwing all social rules out the window and becoming a feral raccoon. It just means letting yourself exist without performing quite so hard all the time.

    It means saying:

    • “I’m overwhelmed.”
    • “I need quiet for an hour.”
    • “I actually don’t enjoy crowded places.”
    • “I’m exhausted and my brain is done processing humans today.”

    And surprisingly? The right people understand.

    Now I have people around me I don’t fully mask with. People I can actually say things to like:
    “Hey, I need an hour alone listening to music because my brain feels like 47 browser tabs playing different sounds.”
    And instead of judging me, they just go:
    “Okay.”

    Honestly, the more I stopped performing, the more comfortable life became.
    Turns out being yourself uses way less energy than trying to manually operate a human simulator 24/7.
    And the funniest part? People usually like the real version of you better anyway.

    What Unmasking Looks Like for Me

    So here’s to unmasking.

    • To stim toys
    • To noise-cancelling headphones
    • To accidentally info-dumping about spreadsheets, water shoes, paddleboards, or whatever your current obsession is
    • To leaving events early
    • To needing recovery time after socializing
    • To finally realizing different doesn’t mean broken

    Because at the end of the day, it’s a lot easier to exist when you stop treating your personality like a customer service job

    And honestly?

    I’m way less tired now, and I have people around who know and like the actual me, not just the version I thought I had to perform.

    If you’re anything like me, maybe try unmasking, even just a little bit at a time. You might be surprised how much lighter life feels.

  • Growing Up in the Gaps

    Growing Up in the Gaps

    What It’s Really Like Having a Complex Learning Disability

    When people hear “learning disability,” they often picture someone who struggles with one subject maybe math, maybe reading but still coasts through the rest. That wasn’t me.

    I was diagnosed in grade 2 with a complex learning disability. Not one area of struggle, all of them. While most kids could lean into a strength when one subject was hard, I didn’t have that safety net. Reading was hard. Writing was hard. Math? A nightmare. There wasn’t one place where things clicked.

    I needed support a lot of it.

    I wasn’t just in a classroom. I was pulled out constantly. Taken from “regular” classes and placed in special education rooms where everything felt different and not in a good way. Sometimes I’d be sent off school grounds entirely for extra learning support. I still remember being picked up in a taxi, taken away from my school, my friends, my routines, to sit in a strange building that smelled like whiteboard markers and frustration.

    Looking back now, I realize how little the school system actually understood about learning disabilities, especially the complex kind. In the 90s, if you struggled enough to get noticed, they slapped a label on it, called it a “learning disability,” and that was that. One label. One box. One solution, even if your struggles didn’t fit neatly into any of it.
    There wasn’t talk about co-existing challenges. No one was screening for things like ADHD, anxiety, or processing disorders. If you couldn’t read well, couldn’t keep up in math, couldn’t process information the same way, it all got bundled together no real explanation, no deeper digging.

    I was even part of a research study through the Children’s Hospital they were trying to understand kids like me. Trying to make sense of complex learning disabilities. I remember sitting in those sterile offices, being poked and prodded with questions, tests, evaluations, like I was a puzzle they couldn’t quite solve.

    And even after all that, the system still didn’t really know what to do with me. Once they found a label, they stopped looking for the reason. They stopped asking the harder questions.

    The system wasn’t built for complexity. It wasn’t built for kids like me.

    I remember at one point, I was told I had to leave my specialized classroom, a small class of just eight of us, all with learning disabilities. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a space where at least the struggles we had were recognized. When they said I had to return to the school closest to my home ‘my designated zone‘ my parents and I thought maybe this was a good thing. Maybe it meant I was making progress.

    But when we went for the tour, it quickly became clear that wasn’t the plan. They wanted to place me in the Life Skills program — the one designed for students with significant cognitive delays or complex medical needs, where the focus wasn’t on academics at all. It was about basic life skills, cooking, personal care, daily routines.

    When I say people didn’t understand me or my needs, I mean they literally wanted to give up on me. They couldn’t figure me out, so their solution was to quietly lower the expectations to nothing. Not because I wasn’t capable, but because they didn’t know what else to do.

    I had tutors after school, worksheets stacked higher than my confidence, and more homework than most kids in my grade. While other kids were playing outside or going to activities, I was still trying to finish the work I didn’t understand the first time around. Or the second. Or the third.

    And as if the struggle itself wasn’t enough, there were the messages I got from the adults around me, the teachers, principals, guidance counselors, and specialized educators who were supposed to help.
    They didn’t just lower the bar for me, they buried it.
    I was told, more than once, that I’d be lucky to finish high school. That university wasn’t even worth thinking about. That I should “be realistic” and not aim too high.

    They meant well, maybe. But those words stuck.

    They taught me early that dreaming was dangerous. That hope came with limits. That some doors weren’t meant for kids like me.
    I spent so much time trying, and even more time pretending I wasn’t drowning. That I wasn’t humiliated every time a teacher asked me to read aloud. That I didn’t feel the sting when classmates rolled their eyes because I took longer, asked more questions, or gave the wrong answer again.

    The message was clear early on: I was different. And not in the cool “quirky” way that people celebrate now. I was difficult, behind, too much work. I was the kid no one knew what to do with, and I felt it.
    Even as a little kid, I knew. I knew when I was being sent away. I knew I wasn’t included. I knew I had to work twice as hard just to try to keep up—and even then, I was still always behind.

    People don’t see what that does to a child’s sense of self. When you grow up constantly being “helped,” you start to believe you’re incapable. You internalize it. It becomes this quiet shame you carry even on the good days.

    I wasn’t lazy.
    I wasn’t stupid.
    But I sure as hell felt like I was.

    And it’s not like I didn’t try. I tried so hard. But when your brain doesn’t process things the way school expects it to, all that effort feels invisible. I didn’t get gold stars. I didn’t get awards. I got “she needs to try harder,” even when I was already giving everything I had.

    Growing up like that affects you. It doesn’t magically go away when you graduate. It lingers in the self-doubt, in the burnout, in the fear of looking dumb, even when you’re smart in ways the system never measured.

    It took me years to unlearn the idea that I had to prove I was “good enough.” Years to stop apologizing for the way my brain works. Years to realize I was never broken, I was just never supported in a way that truly made sense for me.

    If this was your childhood too, I see you. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re on the outside of something you desperately want to be a part of. I know what it’s like to grow up in the gaps—between classrooms, between systems, between other people’s expectations.

    And I want you to know: you are not alone in that.

    You were never the problem. You were navigating a world that didn’t understand you and you’re still here. Still learning. Still trying. Still showing up.

    And that? That’s powerful.

    — Tanya

    Spoiler: It didn’t all stop there the school system, the labels, the doubts, but neither did I. I’ll share the rest of the story soon

    Why I call it “growing up in the gaps”

    Growing up in the gaps means living between systems that were never designed to fully understand me. It’s the space between being labeled, but not fully supported. Between being seen as struggling, but not fully understood.

    My experience didn’t fit into one category, and because of that, I was often placed in systems that didn’t reflect my actual abilities or needs.

    I use this phrase because it feels like the closest way to describe what it was like navigating school, expectations, and identity at the same time.

  • My Brain Is Basically a Live-Action Spreadsheet

    My Brain Is Basically a Live-Action Spreadsheet

    (And That’s Why My Reviews Are Brutally Honest)

    You ever see one of those movies where the main character zones out, and suddenly a thousand glowing charts, maps, and floating images appear mid-air?

    Yeah… that’s my brain.

    Except I’m not solving quantum physics in a high-tech lab. I’m standing in a hotel bathroom calculating:

    • Is the toilet paper too scratchy for neurodivergent skin?
    • Will this fan noise trigger a sensory meltdown… or be the white noise of my dreams?
    • Does the shower have decent water pressure but zero grip. AKA a slippery death trap?
    • Is that smell lemon fresh… or lemon chemical warfare?
    • Will the lighting give me a migraine?
    • Will I cry if this bed is too firm?
    • Can I actually use the access ramp, or is it just there for show?

    For context, this is what I’m really doing when I walk into a space:

    • I’m scanning for sensory overload triggers in real time
    • I’m mentally evaluating whether a space is accessible and comfortable for autistic and disabled travelers
    • I’m breaking down environments into practical, real-world travel decisions most reviews don’t mention
    • I’m looking for things like noise levels, lighting, textures, smells, and safety details

    These are the kinds of details I look for when reviewing hotels and travel spaces for sensory accessibility and autistic-friendly travel.

    Welcome to my world.

    I’m autistic, observant, analytical, and brutally honest not by choice, just by default. I’ve always seen the details most people miss. The pros and cons. And then the pros of the cons. And the cons of the pros. And the “what ifs” that turn pros into cons if X, Y, or Z happens. And yes, I’ve got a backup plan if that con-of-a-pro becomes another con that leads to an unexpected pro.

    It’s like if a decision tree and a crime investigation wall had a baby. With yarn. In 4D. That updates in real time.

    It’s hard to explain, but somehow it all makes perfect sense in my head.

    This is how I move through the world. Every situation becomes a flowchart. Every outing, hotel, idea, thought, word, event, or product gets analyzed. Not because I want to overthink, I just do.

    But here’s the upside: if you’re neurodivergent, sensitive to sensory input, or just want the honest, real-world breakdown before spending money or stepping out the door, I’ve already done the thinking for you. I’ve charted and graphed it and then reanalyzed it.

    Here’s the thing:

    I don’t just review things because it’s fun (though I do love a good Excel chart).
    I do it because:

    • I know how hard it is to find places that work for people like me.
    • I want to make travel easier for autistic and disabled people.
    • And let’s be honest, I’d be an amazing consultant if someone ever paid me.

    But until then, I’ll be here, testing products, paddling new lakes, checking the soap smell at every hotel I visit, and telling you exactly what works, what doesn’t, and what I wish someone had told me before I booked it.

    Because you deserve honest, detailed reviews.
    And I literally can’t not notice this stuff.