There’s something that happens to me when too many people are talking at once.
It’s like my brain suddenly loses the ability to filter any of it. Every voice, every scrape of a chair, every shriek of laughter — it all crashes together into this wall of noise that I can’t escape. And if it doesn’t stop quickly enough, something in me starts to unravel. I can feel it building — this rising, panicked pressure — and if I can’t get out of it in time… I melt down. And I don’t mean I go a bit quiet. I mean I’m shouting at everyone to just stop.
I remember one afternoon — we were at a birthday party in one of those big soft play centres. Blake was absolutely in his element. Matthew was holding it together. And I… was not.
The noise started to swell around me. Parents talking over each other, having to shout just to be heard. Babies crying. Toddlers screeching with delight. Whistles going off somewhere in the background. And then — all at once — it hit me.
My chest tightened. I started to shake. I felt sick and trapped and completely overwhelmed, my body doing that thing I now recognise as the start of a full sensory meltdown.
Fraser spotted it before I could even say anything. He moved quickly — asked someone to keep an eye on the boys, steered me outside, and suddenly there was just… air. Quiet. The pressure started to ease almost immediately. I could breathe again.
The weird thing? I’d been to that exact soft play before and been absolutely fine. And that’s the thing about sensory overwhelm that I don’t think people always understand — it’s completely unpredictable. What you can handle on a Monday might floor you on a Saturday. It depends on how much sleep you’ve had, what you’ve already been carrying that week, whether the lighting feels off, whether you’ve already been “on” for too long. There’s no neat formula for it.
That afternoon could have gone very differently if Fraser hadn’t noticed when he did. The thought of melting down in front of a room full of people — the embarrassment, the exhaustion that would’ve followed — honestly, I don’t even want to think about it.
So if you’re reading this as someone who supports an autistic person — whether that’s your child, your partner, your friend — please learn to spot the early signs. The body stiffening. Going quiet when they were fine a moment ago. Covering their ears. That slightly panicked, faraway look. These aren’t overreactions. These are distress signals. And the sooner you act — getting them outside, reducing the noise, dimming the lights, whatever it takes — the better.
Sensory overwhelm isn’t just feeling a bit uncomfortable. It’s panic and fear and physical distress, all wrapped up in something you can’t always explain to people around you. Taking it seriously isn’t about indulging someone. It’s about basic compassion — helping someone find calm in a world that can sometimes be completely and utterly overwhelming.
