From Check-In to Closing Session: Mapping the Full Sensory Journey of a Neurodivergent Conference Attendee
Bridgette Hebert Hamstead
AuDHD Neurodiversity Consultant, Keynote Speaker, and Advocate. Activist of the Year. United Nations Panelist.
Attending a conference as a neurodivergent person is often not a single moment of discomfort but a continuous sensory experience that begins the moment we arrive and does not end until long after the final session. For many of us, simply walking through the door requires navigating noise, visual chaos, unpredictable social interactions, unfamiliar environments, and a constant stream of internal regulation. Most conferences are designed with neurotypical bodies and brains in mind. They assume comfort with crowds, ease with transitions, and a high level of cognitive and emotional stamina. But for neurodivergent attendees, every part of the day requires calculation and effort. What might seem like a smooth experience to most people can be an exhausting gauntlet for those of us trying to manage executive function, sensory processing, and social energy.
The day typically begins at check-in. Upon arriving at the venue, we are often greeted by a long line of people in a loud, echoing hallway. Name badges, lanyards, schedules, maps, and swag bags are handed out in a rushed exchange, with very little instruction or visual support. The lighting is usually bright and artificial, the sound levels overwhelming. Even before we make it into the first session, we are already absorbing too much information at once while trying to manage overstimulation. This moment sets the tone for the rest of the day. If it feels chaotic, unclear, or loud, many of us will already start to shut down or become hyper-alert to potential barriers ahead.
Next, we face the challenge of navigating the space. Finding the right room is often an exercise in frustration. Venue maps may be hard to read, signage may be vague, and directions are usually given verbally in the midst of ambient noise. For people with auditory processing challenges, this makes it difficult to take in information or ask for help. If the walk between sessions is long or crowded, it adds an extra layer of physical and sensory demand. Many conference centers are designed for maximum capacity, not comfort. The lighting is glaring, the floors echo, and the hallways funnel attendees through tight spaces with little room to pause or breathe. There are rarely spaces where one can sit quietly before a session begins. This means that regulation has to happen on the move, if it happens at all.
Sessions themselves are often packed with dense content delivered in rapid succession. The norm is to present for 45 to 60 minutes straight, often with PowerPoint slides filled with text, fast-talking speakers, and few pauses. For neurodivergent attendees, especially those with ADHD or sensory sensitivities, it can be incredibly hard to stay regulated and focused. If the room is too hot or too cold, if the chairs are uncomfortable, if there is no access to water or movement, the effort it takes to stay present outweighs any learning that could happen. If we stim, shift in our seats, or look away to self-regulate, we worry about appearing inattentive or rude. If we need to leave the room to decompress, we fear missing important information or being judged. Even when the content is compelling, the delivery can become overwhelming because there is no room for rest built into the design of the session.
Breaks are usually short and unstructured. Attendees are expected to use this time to socialize, network, eat, find bathrooms, navigate to the next session, or respond to emails. For many neurodivergent people, breaks should be for sensory regulation and decompression. But finding a quiet spot to sit alone without being approached can be nearly impossible. If there is no sensory room or quiet lounge available, we end up hiding in hallways, bathrooms, or stairwells just to get a moment of calm. The assumption that breaks are for mingling and stimulation does not take into account that some people need silence, solitude, or predictable routines to stay grounded.
Lunch is another challenge. It is often served in a crowded room with round tables where everyone is expected to interact. For autistic attendees or those with social anxiety, this format can feel more like a performance than a break. If the food options are not labeled clearly or do not accommodate dietary needs, it adds an additional layer of stress. If the space is too loud or busy, many of us may skip eating entirely to avoid further overload. This then affects energy and focus for the rest of the day. Conferences rarely consider how the structure of meals can either support or deplete attendees.
As the day progresses, cognitive and sensory fatigue begin to accumulate. Executive function starts to decline. Making decisions about which sessions to attend, how to get there, and whether to take breaks becomes harder. We may become more sensitive to sound, light, touch, and temperature. We may start masking more to get through social encounters or sessions, which leads to more exhaustion. If there is no regulation space available, it becomes harder to stay engaged. Even when we try to push through, our ability to absorb information or connect with others meaningfully is greatly reduced. This kind of fatigue is rarely visible to others, but it is real and impactful. By late afternoon, many neurodivergent attendees are either on the verge of shutdown or already disassociating in order to cope.
Closing sessions or keynotes often happen in the largest, loudest rooms. They are framed as celebratory or energizing, but for neurodivergent people, they can feel like the hardest part of the day. Crowds, clapping, bright lights, and emotionally charged speeches can push us past our limits. Even if we want to be present and engaged, our bodies and brains may no longer be able to keep up. If we leave early, we miss out on content or recognition. If we stay, we do so at a cost. Either way, the end of the day is rarely restful. It is often followed by social receptions or networking events, which many of us cannot attend due to sensory and social exhaustion.
The experience does not end when the event is over. Many neurodivergent attendees spend hours or days recovering from the physical and emotional strain of attending a conference. This recovery is not optional. It is a necessary part of surviving an environment that was not designed with our needs in mind. For some, this may mean sleeping for long periods, canceling other plans, or retreating into quiet, solitary spaces to re-regulate. The toll of participation is cumulative, and the lack of support throughout the day only deepens the impact.
Designing conferences that are truly accessible requires seeing the entire day through the lens of sensory experience and cognitive capacity. It means planning for regulation, rest, and multiple modes of engagement. It means making space for people to come and go, to stim, to move, to be quiet, and to care for themselves without shame. From check-in to closing session, every point of contact is an opportunity to signal belonging and build trust. Neurodivergent attendees are not asking for special treatment. We are asking for thoughtful design that considers the full reality of our experience. When events begin to map out the day with this in mind, they create spaces where more of us can participate not just in survival mode, but with presence, comfort, and dignity.
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Designing with these supports in mind helps create a truly neuro-affirming conference environment that respects how different bodies and brains move through the world.