Sensory hangovers. It's a thing.

You know the feeling. You wake with a headache and there are wet sand bags sitting on your eyes, your limbs feel like lead, and you want nothing more than to stay curled up in bed all day.

I'm hungover. But not the way you might think.

So what happened yesterday? Did I drink too much? Nope.

Did I sleep horrendously? Have a stressful work meeting? Take recreational drugs or forget to take my anxiety meds?

Nope, nope, nope, nope.

I went out to a nice restaurant for lunch.

That’s it. That’s all it took.

I felt it immediately. The moment we stepped inside, the noise hit me like a freight train.

Once we were seated and alone, my darling, neuro-affirming, love-of-my-life husband leaned over and asked, 'Are you okay?', with deep concern written all over his face.

I didn't want to spoil our date. After all, it was our fifth wedding anniversary, he'd taken the day off work, and we'd both been looking forward to coming back to this beautiful place in the Swan Valley region. We'd previously visited for a Valentine's Day lunch, and the food had been divine.

One of the many delicious dishes we had that made all the effort worthwhile.

So I smiled — it was possibly more of an awkward grimace — and said I would be fine, but perhaps we don't stay for too long? He was happy to oblige. This wasn't our first rodeo.

I had not taken my ADHD medication that day, which was intentional as it decreases appetite. The consequence, however, was struggling to focus on my husband and the task at hand — ordering food and drinks — as I was so distracted and unsettled by the cacophony swirling around us.

The clinking of cutlery, the slamming of cutlery drawers at the many, many service stations scattered around the perimeter, the hum of conversation layered on conversation, the occasional toddler screech, the painful incessant scraping of heavy chairs, the constant movement of waitstaff and customers, the shaking of icy cocktail mixtures, relentless music piping through the ceiling speakers, and the ad hoc disruptions from visiting staff who need to top up your water/wine, and check that you're enjoying every single course — all of it added up, drip by drip, until my nervous system was full to overflowing.

Image: Media by Wix.

I fought the urge to scream and run into the carpark, covering my ears with my hands.

My husband brought up the idea of bringing my headphones next time. We had discussed this before. I said maybe, but then I say, this would make me stand out and look 'weird'. His response: 'Who cares?' He makes an excellent point, but for all the pride I have in my newly discovered neurodivergence, wearing headphones in a restaurant just feels like something I can't bring myself to do yet.

Because, in addition to making me look different, I also know they won't completely tune out the noise. And, how would I converse with my dining partner? They make my ears sweaty and, finally, for anyone who is bursting to praise Loops to me, I have indeed heard they offer a great discreet alternative to giant noise-cancelling headphones, but I find having things poked inside my ears deeply uncomfortable.

Instead, I tried to stay calm. Deep breaths. Focus on the person in front of me. Luckily I had checked the menu in advance so my preferred meals were already selected, which was a habit of mine. I took a sip of sparkling pinot, placed my husband's hand in mine, and kissed him.

I recalled the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding method that my wonderful Occupational Therapist taught me, which involves using your five senses to connect with the present moment. I looked around the restaurant, and decided to give it a go:

• 5 things you can see (handsome husband, water jug, menu, napkin, cool gnarly roots on a tree in the outside courtyard)

• 4 things you can touch (cool wine glass, husband's warm hand, my fingernails, the polished wooden floor)

• 3 things you can hear (chair scraping, laugher, slamming door)

• 2 things you can smell (wood-fired bread, my perfume - Flora by Gucci), and

• 1 thing you can taste (wine).

This was helpful as a distraction for a few minutes. But it didn't really reduce the anxiety.

I excused myself to visit the bathroom. Sadly, it was not the respite I needed, due to the loud music echoing menacingly throughout the tiled room. I went outside to the beautifully manicured lawned area, which is popular as a wedding venue. Again, no peace was to be had. These days, it seems like all nice restaurants and funky cafes have made it their mission to install speakers in every orifice of every room and every area they own, so there is no possible section where it is quiet, until you're in the car driving home.

I presume the managers think they are providing ambience. Which I'm sure they are, with most people enjoying the soft waves of instrumental music.

But for me, and others like me, it feels like my needs are invisible, and public places are not safe.

By the time we got home, I felt wrung out.

Every muscle ached, my skin was buzzing, and my brain just… stopped cooperating. Words didn’t come easily. Decisions were impossible. All I could do was put on my comfy pants and fluffy socks, curl up in the quiet and wait for it to pass.

Image: Media by Wix.

That’s what a sensory hangover is — the crash that follows sensory overload. It’s your body demanding rest after hours of forced endurance.

For neurodivergent people, especially those who are autistic or ADHD, this isn’t rare or dramatic — it’s just reality. Our brains don’t filter sensory input the same way. What others can tune out — lights, noise, textures, smells — we feel all at once, all the time.

So while a lunch out might look simple, it’s actually an extreme sport for the nervous system. And the aftermath can feel like the worst hangover imaginable.

Recovery looks like darkness, stillness, soft fabrics, quiet voices, comfort shows, stimming, having at least a day or more with no plans. It looks like learning to listen when my body whispers, 'That’s enough.'

Because I did nothing wrong. I just reached my limit.

The solution here is not to completely pull away and avoid the world. Because that would be an unfair tax on ND folk just for having a different kind of brain.

I bloody love restaurant food. It's a treat that I never want to lose from my life. So I'll just do it occasionally. I'll factor in adequate recovery time and maybe - maybe - I'll wear headphones one day.