By: Kayla Northcutt
Have You Ever Wondered?
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to live in a world that never turns down the volume? Where the lights hum louder than most people talk, and a simple trip to Walmart feels like a full-contact sport for your senses?
Autism has been in the news a lot lately, which is good. Awareness is up. But understanding still has some catching up to do.
So, as someone who’s autistic, I wanted to show what life looks and feels like through my lens. Not the textbook version, the real one. The one where every day is a sensory adventure that’s equal parts exhausting, hilarious, and humbling.
“From the outside, I look like any other 22-year-old woman. But inside, I’m running a mental marathon just to survive the soundtrack of life.”
What You See vs. What’s Real
From the outside, I probably look like anyone else my age. I live on my own, I’ve graduated from college, I’m in a long-term relationship.
But what you don’t see is how hard I work to move through a world that wasn’t designed for the way my brain works. Autism isn’t something that sits on the surface. It’s the lens through which I experience everything, every light, every sound, every thought.
It’s invisible, but it’s real.
Welcome to the Walmart Olympics
For most people, running to the store is a quick errand. For me, it’s a sensory triathlon.
The second those automatic doors whoosh open, the world explodes into chaos. Lights glare like search beams. Carts crash in metallic rhythm. Kids squeal. Registers beep like a relentless metronome.
Every flicker, every echo, every cough in the next aisle lands in my brain like static. My chest tightens. My focus splinters. What most people call “just shopping” becomes a full-body storm.
It’s too loud, too bright, too much. And I’m counting the seconds until I can escape to the quiet of my car.
SIDEBAR: Sensory Snapshot
· Fluorescent lights feel like a spotlight aimed at my soul
· Overlapping conversations register as one tangled soundwave
· Bright packaging and signage become a wall of visual noise
· My brain’s translation: “Everything, everywhere, all at once”
The Lights Attack First
Those fluorescent bulbs don’t just shine, they stab. It’s like someone set the world’s brightness to maximum discomfort.
And here’s the kicker: I can hear the lights.
That buzzing, electric hum most people ignore sounds to me like bees trapped behind my eyes. When the radio cuts off between songs, that hum fills the air and seeps into my ears, down my neck, and into my thoughts.
I’m just trying to decide between dish soap and laundry detergent, but the lights are yelling louder than my brain can think.
“My heart’s racing. My shoulders tense. What should be a five-minute errand turns into a test of endurance.”
The Soundtrack of Chaos
Then comes the noise.
Walmart is a symphony of sound if the conductor was chaos. Pop songs collide with commercials. Announcements crackle overhead like voices in my skull. Carts crash. Shoes squeak. Kids cry. Every sound demands attention all at once.
My brain doesn’t filter; it feasts. Every frequency comes in equal volume until the sound becomes pressure. Not just something I hear, but something I feel. By aisle six, I’m drained.
SIDEBAR: Sensory Overload 101
When too many sounds, sights, or sensations hit at once, the brain’s filters jam. For neurotypical people, the background stays in the background. For autistic people, there is no background. Everything competes for the front row.
The Never-Ending Narration
Just to keep things interesting, my brain adds captions. Everywhere I look, it labels what I see automatically. “Cereal. Cheerios. Yellow box. Honey Nut. $4.98.” “Chips. Doritos. Red bag.” “Toothpaste. Crest. Blue label. On sale.”
Even when I don’t want them to, the words keep coming, piling up like a ticker tape I can’t turn off.
It’s funny until it’s not. Imagine trying to shop while your own thoughts keep shouting product names in surround sound.
The Finish Line
By checkout, I’m not just tired, I’m wrung out. My shoulders ache, my jaw’s tight, my brain’s buzzing. When I finally step outside, the air feels different. Cooler. Calmer. Quieter.
That five-minute errand took half an hour and a solid chunk of my energy. But hey, I made it. Gold medal in sensory overload management!
SIDEBAR: How to Help Someone Like Me
· Don’t take it personally if we seem distant or anxious
· Offer patience, not pity
· Avoid sensory triggers when possible, like blaring music or flashing lights
· If we need space, it’s not rejection. It’s recovery
Why I Wrote This
I didn’t write this to complain. I wrote it to help people understand what they can’t always see.
Autism doesn’t always look the way people expect. It’s not about being shy, antisocial, or “too sensitive.” It’s about navigating a world that’s too bright, too loud, too fast, and doing it anyway.
So next time you see someone who looks overwhelmed, give them grace. A smile. A little space. Because for some of us, the world isn’t just loud, it’s really loud. And we’re doing our best to live, love, laugh, and grocery shop one Walmart trip at a time.
Kayla Northcutt is a content creator whose empathetic storytelling connects with organizations supporting neurodivergent individuals, guide dog training, and sensory-friendly causes. For collaborations or freelance marketing or graphic design projects, reach her at kaylanorthcutt@icloud.com.
