Sensory Overload, Neurodivergence and Chronic Pain

My Journey to Breaking the Vicious Cycle.

Diary of a Chronically Ill Neurodivergent Female: Week Seven

On a recent trip to the supermarket (which I usually try to avoid like the plague), it was alarmingly obvious how tightly my senses and my chronic pain were bound together. I was standing in the middle of a aisle, beneath glaring fluorescent lights that buzzed endlessly. People rushed past with squeaking trolleys, their voices echoing off the high ceilings. My autism heightened every sound and flicker of light, my ADHD made it impossible to filter anything out, and my fibromyalgia responded to the overload by intensifying the pain in my shoulders and neck. By the time I reached the till, my body was so tense I could scarcely hold my shopping basket. It felt like a moment of complete defeat, but it actually led to me creating a sensory overload survival kit.

Understanding the Overlap

At first, I thought living with autism, ADHD, and fibromyalgia simply meant juggling three separate challenges (in addition to my many other conditions). It never occurred to me that these conditions could interact and compound each other’s effects. Autism influences how I process sensory input, often rendering small sounds or bright lights uncomfortably intense. ADHD affects my ability to filter out distractions; if someone drops a coin behind me, I instantly whip my head around. Meanwhile, fibromyalgia weaves an undercurrent of pain through my muscles and joints, which becomes even more pronounced under stress. Whenever I found myself in a bright, noisy environment—such as that supermarket—my anxious brain would tense up, triggering a flare of pain that left me drained and frustrated.

Over time, I noticed that this heightened stress looped back and made me more prone to further sensory overload. I would brace against noise or chaos, which caused my muscles to stiffen and my pain to surge. That pain, in turn, eroded my patience and tolerance for any additional stimuli. Before long, I found myself caught in a relentless cycle. Despite recognising the pattern, I felt stuck—unsure how to break free from the chain reaction once it began.

Finding Strategies That Work

One of the biggest revelations came when I decided to do my own research, poring over articles, forums, and books that explored how people with neurodivergent conditions handle sensory overload. I became fascinated with the concept of sensory integration and wanted to translate the theory into practical steps I could take in my everyday life. Rather than hoping someone else could fix the problem for me, I gathered ideas from multiple sources and created what I call my “sensory overload survival kit.”

Initially, I thought a “survival kit” might just mean carrying earbuds or a phone with calming music. But I soon realised that a well-prepared kit had the power to ground me quickly in overwhelming situations. I tailored it to my specific needs, including noise-cancelling headphones, tinted glasses to soften harsh lighting, and a small bottle of lavender oil that helps distract me from pain spikes. I also added a few fidget items—a smooth pebble and a squishy stress ball—to give my restless hands something to do when my ADHD made me twitchy. The final piece was a series of short breathing or grounding exercises stored on my phone, so I’d never forget the steps even if I started to panic.

Armed with this kit, I began making changes in my environment as well. My research showed me that the spaces we live and work in can either inflame or soothe our senses, especially if we’re on the autism spectrum or have chronic pain. At home, I replaced bright overhead bulbs with warm-toned lamps and found curtains that blocked out intrusive sunlight. These small swaps reduced the background stimulation that so often gnawed at my nerves. Before, I’d often collapse onto the sofa after putting my daughter to bed, still reeling from the sensory onslaught of the day. With calmer lighting and quieter spaces, I finally felt safe to rest and decompress in my own house.

Beyond modifying my living space, I began rethinking how I approached tasks that once felt overwhelming. For instance, I used to rush out the door as soon as I realised I needed groceries, never considering the time of day or how crowded the shops might be. Inevitably, I’d get trapped in a chaotic environment with no escape route. To be honest, I am fortunate that I have a supportive husband that understands my ‘issues’, and if possible he will do the food shopping. However, if this is not possible, I now check the quieter hours for my local supermarket, keep a concise list, and bring my survival kit in case anything triggers me—a flickering light, someone’s blaring phone, or that grating squeak of a trolley wheel. If my anxiety starts to build, I’ll pause in a quieter aisle and use a grounding exercise. By pacing myself and recognising I have tools at my disposal, I can often prevent the worst meltdowns or pain flares before they spiral out of control.

Self-regulation techniques have become another cornerstone of my newfound approach.

The simplest—and often most effective—is breathwork. When I feel my heart rate climb and my muscles tense, I count a slow inhale for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for four, and then rest for four. It might seem trivial, but focusing on this pattern forces my brain to shift away from the external bombardment. If the noise level is too intense, I’ll slip on my headphones and play soft music or a calming nature sound. If the lighting is oppressive, my tinted glasses give my eyes a break. Chewing gum can also be calming and acts as a form of an oral fidget.

As I continued fine-tuning my strategies, I discovered I was relying less on willpower alone and more on structured, tailored supports. The biggest shift, however, was in my mindset. I realised that life with ADHD, autism, and fibromyalgia would always bring me challenges, but I had more agency than I once believed. By predicting potential pitfalls—like loud restaurant environments or hectic shopping centres—and preparing in advance, I removed some of the stress that used to hit me like a freight train. I still get caught off guard sometimes. But when that happens, I remind myself that I have my kit, I have my breathing exercises, and I have the knowledge I’ve gathered from my research and community support.

I used to dread everyday tasks, suspecting each errand or social outing might leave me bedridden with an intense pain flare. Now, while I can’t guarantee total comfort, I know I have a plan. And that plan has given me a new level of confidence. If a situation becomes unbearable, I’ve learnt to exit gracefully without feeling ashamed. If I sense my pain creeping up, I address it early—doing gentle stretches, drinking water, or taking a moment to rest—instead of pushing myself until I’m in crisis mode.

The process hasn’t been instant or linear. I’ve had setbacks and still do.

Sometimes I forget my headphones, or I overestimate my stamina and end up stuck in a crowd. Yet each time I stumble, I learn something: maybe a new technique to soothe my nerves, or a reminder that certain environments will always require an exit plan. Over time, these lessons accumulate, gradually chipping away at the cycle that once felt inescapable.

The most meaningful realisation is that I’m no longer powerless against the onslaught of my senses and my pain. Yes, living with ADHD, autism, and fibromyalgia carries significant challenges—but by carefully tailoring my environment, building my survival kit, and connecting with others who share similar experiences, I’ve forged a path toward greater peace. If you find yourself in a similar cycle of overload and pain, consider exploring your own version of a sensory survival kit. It can be as simple as earplugs, a comforting scent, or a list of grounding exercises saved on your phone. Start where you are, experiment with different ideas, and trust that small, deliberate steps can yield surprisingly big improvements in your daily life. You might find, as I have, that hope lies in the careful preparation and self-compassion that turn an overwhelming world into one where you can steadily regain control.