The Neurodivergent’s Guide to Surviving Work Events: A Story of Chaos, Trains, and Social Overload

There’s a special kind of dread that comes with being told you have to attend a work event. Conferences, training sessions, networking evenings—on paper, they sound harmless. In fact, some people even look forward to them. “A great chance to meet new people!” they say, eyes alight with enthusiasm. “A brilliant learning opportunity!”

For me, and many others who experience the world through the lens of neurodivergence, these words translate into something very different: a logistical, social, and sensory nightmare wrapped up in a lanyard.

It’s not just the event itself that’s stressful—it’s everything around it. The travel to an unfamiliar place, the unspoken rules of workplace mingling, the constant pressure to perform the correct amount of enthusiasm without veering into overcompensation or disengagement. For a neurotypical person, a work event is just a thing that happens in the day. For me, it’s a three-act psychological thriller that starts the moment the invitation lands in my inbox and doesn’t end until I’ve recovered, roughly a week later.

Let me walk you through it.

Chapter One: The Pre-Event Anxiety Spiral

The stress starts well before the event itself. When I first hear about it, my initial reaction isn’t excitement or even mild curiosity—it’s logistical panic.

Where is it? How do I get there? How long will it take? What’s the exact format of the day? Will there be breaks? Will I have to talk to people? Will I be able to leave early? Will they provide food, or am I expected to navigate the horror of ordering something while standing in a queue with my brain overheating from sensory overload?

The idea of just showing up is incomprehensible to me. Some people seem to possess an ability to walk into a new environment with nothing but an address and an open mind. These are the same people who can pack a bag in five minutes and “wing it” while travelling. They are my natural enemy.

Instead, I enter full-scale reconnaissance mode.

I study the event email like it holds the key to my survival. I check the schedule, then cross-reference it with Google Maps to determine the exact walking time from the train station to the venue. I drop the little Street View figure onto the road and virtually walk the entire route so Future Me doesn’t have a meltdown trying to find the entrance. If I have to take a train, I will check multiple train times, ensuring I have backups in case of delays. I am not leaving this to chance. I do not trust the universe.

Yet, despite all this planning, my brain remains uneasy, because the one thing I can’t account for is the unknown variables. Will the venue be too loud? Will I be able to find a quiet space? Will I walk into the wrong room and embarrass myself so profoundly that I have to change careers?

These are real concerns.

Chapter Two: The Train Journey to Chaos

The day of the event arrives, and I’m already exhausted from preparing for every possible disaster scenario. I leave the house ridiculously early, because the anxiety of being late outweighs my dislike of standing around awkwardly.

Public transport is an event in itself. I sit on the train, hyper-aware of my surroundings, desperately trying to look casual and competent while secretly overthinking everything. Am I sitting in the right seat? Did I read my ticket correctly? What if there’s an unexpected change, and I don’t realise until I’m halfway to Scotland?

To pass the time, I pretend to look at my phone while really, I’m mentally rehearsing every social interaction I might have to endure later. What if I have to introduce myself? What if someone tries to make small talk? What’s the least awkward way to exit a conversation without it feeling like a rejection of their entire personality?

It is too early in the morning for this much social strategy.

Chapter Three: The Name Badge Table of Doom

I arrive at the venue, and immediately I am confronted by my first major challenge: The Name Badge Table.

It should be simple. Walk up, find my name, put it on. But nothing is ever simple.

First, the act of scanning name badges without looking lost is a delicate art. I don’t want to take too long, because that might imply that I have forgotten my own name. But I also don’t want to grab the wrong badge and end up masquerading as some executive director from another department. There is pressure here.

The worst part is when I find my badge and realise: I now have to attach it to my clothing.

Where does it go? Should I put it on my left side or my right? If I pin it too high, does it look weird? Too low, and people will awkwardly stare at my stomach trying to read it. Also, am I meant to just walk in immediately, or do I loiter near the entrance pretending to be very interested in a schedule I’ve already memorised?

Meanwhile, neurotypical people are just breezing through this process, casually chatting while effortlessly affixing their name badges with the confidence of people who have never once overthought a basic human action in their lives.

I hate them.

Chapter Four: The Networking Gauntlet

Nothing triggers raw, primal fear quite like the unstructured networking session.

There is no clear objective, no defined end point, just a vague expectation that I will approach people, initiate conversations, and maintain normal human interactions for an undefined period of time.

The problem is, I have no natural instincts for how to do this.

Do I interrupt a conversation and insert myself like a social gatecrasher? Do I hover near a group just enough to be noticed but not enough to look like a stalker? If I make eye contact, am I now in the conversation?

There is no training for this.

Instead of making my own decisions, I do what any anxious person does: latch onto the first familiar face I see and stay near them like a social barnacle, hoping they will carry me through the event without realising that they have become my designated human shield.

At some point, I will inevitably get trapped in a long, inescapable conversation with someone who loves talking about themselves. I will nod, make the appropriate “Mmm” noises, and wait for a socially acceptable moment to escape. That moment will never come. I will die in this conversation. This is my life now.

Chapter Five: The Exhausted Exit and Social Burnout

After a full day of navigating social politics, absorbing information, and pretending to be engaged, my brain is shutting down.

Now comes the final challenge: leaving without it being weird.

Do I say goodbye to people? Or do I just disappear and pretend I was never here? If I leave at the same time as someone else, am I now required to make small talk on the way out?

There are too many moving parts to this equation. I opt for a brisk but polite escape, muttering a general “Great to see you!” to the room at large before power-walking out like I’m fleeing a crime scene.

By the time I get home, I am socially bankrupt. Every interaction, every overstimulating moment, every second of masking and performing neurotypical behaviour has drained me completely.

I spend the next 48 hours avoiding all human contact, restoring my energy like a phone on 2% battery.

Final Thoughts: The Next Time It Happens

The worst part? I will have to do it all again. Another email will come. Another invitation will be sent. And once again, I will spiral through the same logistical chaos, overthinking traps, and social exhaustion.

But next time, at least, I’ll know where to put my name badge.