When Everything Is Too Much

I was standing in Coles, in the fresh produce section, when I noticed her.

A woman about my age. Browsing the shelves with this expression of complete and utter boredom. Like supermarket shopping was just… a chore. A mildly tedious thing she had to tick off her list before getting on with her day.

I was so jealous I could have cried.

Because on the outside, I probably looked the same. Just another person pushing a trolley, checking prices, maybe a bit tired. But inside? Inside was chaos. My heart was racing. The fluorescent lights were buzzing—that barely-perceptible flicker that most people don’t notice but my brain absolutely cannot ignore. The PA system kept blaring. Someone’s trolley had a squeaky wheel. A toddler was screaming near the bakery. The fish counter smelled like fish counter. And I was trying to remember what I’d come for while simultaneously fighting the urge to abandon my trolley and bolt to the exit.

I wish supermarket shopping bored me, I thought, watching this woman calmly pick up a salad kit like it was nothing. I’d swap her boredom for this in a heartbeat.

That was years ago. These days, I shop online. Click, click, delivery to my door, problem solved. (Best discovery of my adult life, honestly.) But I still think about that moment sometimes. The gulf between how I looked and how I felt. The loneliness of struggling with something that everyone else seems to manage without a second thought.

If you’ve ever felt like this—overwhelmed by an environment that other people barely register—I want you to know: there’s nothing wrong with you.

Supermarkets are a sensory nightmare. By design.

Here’s the thing: it’s not just you. Supermarkets are genuinely, objectively, scientifically overwhelming for neurodivergent brains. And once I understood why, I stopped feeling like such a failure for finding them hard.

Think about what’s actually happening in there.

The sound alone is relentless. Fluorescent lights humming. Trolley wheels squeaking. Scanners beeping. Music playing. Announcements blaring. Someone’s kid losing it in aisle seven. For most people, their brain filters this into background noise. For neurodivergent brains? Every single sound gets processed at full volume. All at once. Constantly.

Then there’s the visual assault. Thousands of brightly coloured packages fighting for your attention. Flickering lights. Crowded aisles. Sale signs everywhere. Your brain is trying to process all of it while also remembering whether you need butter.

And the smells. Fresh bread mixing with raw fish mixing with cleaning products mixing with the perfume of the person who just walked past. For those of us with sensitive olfactory systems, it’s genuinely nauseating.

Then there’s the cognitive load. The sheer number of decisions—which brand, which size, which price—can trigger what researchers call “analysis paralysis.” Your brain just… stalls. And if the supermarket has moved things around since your last visit? Now you’re wandering unfamiliar aisles, spending more time in the overwhelming environment, getting more and more depleted.

And we haven’t even talked about the social stuff. Navigating around other shoppers. Making small talk with cashiers. The self-checkout machines that inevitably malfunction and loudly announce your incompetence to everyone nearby. (“Unexpected item in bagging area.” Yes, thank you, I know.)

All while trying to look normal. Trying not to seem weird. Masking, it’s called—and it’s exhausting.

It’s not weakness. It’s neurology.

Dr Mona Delahooke, author of Beyond Behaviors (2019), explains that these responses aren’t a failure to cope. They’re the nervous system doing exactly what it’s designed to do—detect and respond to the environment. For neurodivergent people, that detection system is more finely tuned. We pick up on things others miss. Which can be a gift, sometimes. And also completely overwhelming in environments that weren’t designed with us in mind.

That reframing changed everything for me.

I’d spent years thinking I was dramatic. Weak. Bad at basic adult tasks. Turns out, my brain is just processing more information than the average shopper—and running out of capacity faster. That’s not a character flaw. That’s a neurological difference.

Anyway, here’s what can actually help.

Not everyone can avoid supermarkets entirely. Bills, budgets, circumstances—online shopping isn’t always an option. So what helps when you have to be there?

Knowing your triggers is the first step. Sound? Visual clutter? Smells? Crowds? The self-checkout from hell? Everyone’s different. Keeping a simple “sensory journal” for a few days—jotting down what was happening when you felt overwhelmed—can reveal patterns you’d never consciously noticed.

Then there’s the practical stuff. Noise-cancelling earbuds or even simple earplugs can take the edge off the auditory chaos. Sunglasses help with the fluorescent glare. Some people find a smooth stone or small fidget useful for grounding—something to run through your fingers when everything feels like too much. A dab of a preferred scent on your wrist or mask can help block the olfactory assault from the fish counter.

Timing matters too. Early morning or late evening tends to be quieter. Some supermarkets now offer “quiet hours” with dimmed lights and no music or announcements—worth checking if your local store does this.

And having an exit strategy helps. Knowing you can leave—that you’re allowed to abandon the trolley, that nothing terrible will happen if you walk out—takes some of the pressure off. Sometimes just knowing escape is an option makes staying more bearable.

When you’re already overwhelmed

Sometimes it hits before you can prepare. Your heart’s racing. Your thoughts are scattering. You’re standing in front of the yoghurt section and you can’t remember why.

A few things that can help in the moment:

The 4-7-8 breathing technique. Breathe in for four counts, hold for seven, breathe out for eight. It sounds like something from a pamphlet in a GP’s waiting room. But it works because your body physically can’t panic and breathe that slowly at the same time.

Deep pressure. Cross your arms and squeeze yourself firmly. Or press your palms together hard. It’s the same principle as weighted blankets—proprioceptive input that tells your nervous system you’re contained, you’re here, you’re okay.

The 5-4-3-2-1 grounding exercise. Notice five things you can see, four you can feel, three you can hear, two you can smell, one you can taste. Even if “taste” is just the inside of your own mouth and the memory of this morning’s coffee. It pulls you out of the spiral and back into your body.

The longer game

I should say: I’m not a psychologist or an occupational therapist. What I am is someone who has white-knuckled my way through enough Coles trips to know this struggle intimately—and who has read far too many research papers at 2am trying to understand why.

What I’ve figured out is this: you don’t need to toughen up. You don’t need to push through. You don’t need to fix yourself, because you’re not broken.

But you can make life easier on your particular brain.

That might mean avoiding overwhelming environments where possible. (Hello, online shopping.) It might mean building in recovery time after unavoidable trips instead of scheduling three errands back-to-back and wondering why you’re shattered by midday. It might mean carrying a small kit of sensory supports—earbuds, sunglasses, something to fidget with—so you’re not caught unprepared.

It definitely means being kinder to yourself about it. Which is easier said than done. But still.

You’re not alone in this

That woman in Coles—the bored one—she probably had her own invisible struggles I knew nothing about. Maybe she was anxious about something else entirely. Maybe she was exhausted. Maybe her calm exterior was masking something too.

But in that moment, all I could see was someone for whom this everyday task was just… easy. And I felt so alone.

If you’ve ever felt that way—if you’ve ever looked around at everyone else calmly going about their business while you’re falling apart inside—please know that you’re not the only one. Sensory overload is real. It’s exhausting. And it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.

It just means your brain works differently. And that’s okay.

These days, my groceries arrive at my front door in plastic crates, carried by a very polite delivery driver who has never once commented on the Tim Tam situation.

It might be a bit mundane. But it works. And that’s good enough for me.

Want more practical strategies for managing sensory overload—at the supermarket and beyond? I’ve put together a free ebook with extra tips, including how to create sensory-friendly spaces, build your own portable toolkit, and explain your needs to people who don’t get it. Grab it here: “Managing Sensory Overload: A Practical Guide for Neurodivergent Adults