Neurodivergent travelers often experience the world through a sensory lens that others may not see. But that doesn’t make it any less real.
Things like sudden schedule changes, unpredictable environments, crowded spaces, and noise can turn an otherwise simple travel day into a minefield of overwhelm.
And yet, neurodivergent people travel all the time; they just have to plan differently. From creating personalized routines to using noise-canceling tools or prioritizing destinations that feel calm and structured, travel becomes more manageable (and enjoyable) when it works with their brains, not against them.
Inclusive travel for neurodivergent folks often means allowing for slower transitions, building flexibility into itineraries, and honoring their need for recovery time after highly stimulating experiences.
Al’s Story: Feeling Safe and Supported as a Queer + and Neurodivergent Traveler
When I first started traveling, I didn’t think much about what it meant to travel as a queer, neurodivergent person.
I knew planning stressed me out sometimes, and I knew certain destinations might not be welcoming, but I treated those things as background noise — easy enough to work around if I just focused on the fun parts. You plan the trip, you go, and you trust you’ll figure everything else out along the way.
But over time, especially as I learned more about my ADHD and became more aware of global LGBTQ+ safety, that casualness stopped working. What I used to dismiss as “normal trip chaos” was actually time blindness, sensory overload, and anxiety showing up in ways I didn’t yet have language for.
I paid the ADHD travel tax more times than I’d like to admit. For example, I would forget to book something important, leaving things until the last minute, or scrambling because my brain simply couldn’t hold details months in advance.
One trip really crystallized everything. I’d waited way too long to book a flight, prices had jumped, and by the time we arrived at our destination, I was already overstimulated and burned out — before the vacation had even started. I remember sitting in a tiny hotel room, scrolling through travel advisories for queer travelers, realizing how much I had relied on luck instead of intention.
It was the first time I understood that my brain and my identity weren’t side notes to my travel style — they shaped the entire experience.
Now, I approach travel with a lot more honesty about what I need. I build in breaks because I know I’ll hit sensory overload if I don’t. I choose hotels with spaces where I can decompress — a quiet corner, a gym, even a cozy bookstore nearby. I keep activities flexible: three or four “must-dos,” and a handful of “nice-if-the-energy-is-there” options so I never feel trapped by my own itinerary.
Safety matters in a new way, too. When I work with travel providers, I look for clear signals that LGBTQ+ travelers are welcome. For example, I look for a Pride flag, an explicit statement of inclusion, honest guidance about destinations that might not be safe for me or my wife.
I appreciate reminders, too. Send me the flight info again. Nudge me about insurance. Keep the choices simple. My brain works best with fewer options, not a hundred tabs open at once.
And I’ve built little systems that make me feel grounded. A dedicated pocket for essentials so nothing important gets lost in the shuffle. Headphones and a handheld game for sensory overwhelm. A tiny contingency fund for the inevitable “oops” moments, like the time I somehow packed three tubes of toothpaste and no toothbrush.
Traveling as a queer, neurodivergent person isn’t about avoiding who I am; it’s about traveling in a way that supports who I am. And somewhere along the way, that shift made travel feel less like something I had to push through and more like something I could enjoy with clarity, comfort, and ease.