Driving: A High-Speed Sensory Dodgeball Game

There are two types of people in this world:

1. Those who drive with one hand on the wheel, music blaring, casually chatting on speakerphone like they’re hosting a podcast.
2. Me — white-knuckling the steering wheel like I’m piloting a space shuttle through an asteroid field, sweating, silent, and mentally preparing a formal apology for whatever minor traffic violation I might have committed.

Let’s talk about what it’s like to drive as an autistic person, shall we?

Driving is the ultimate sensory battle royale (if you're wondering why a middle aged-woman is using gaming terms, it's because I have two sons who are gamers who speak gamer around the house incessantly).

Imagine this: You’re expected to:

Operate a two-ton death machine,

Navigate a constantly changing environment filled with moving objects,

Read complex visual symbols (aka road signs) at 100 km/h,

Interpret subtle social signals from other drivers (blinkers, brake lights, passive-aggressive merging),

Make split-second decisions that could determine whether you live, die, or accidentally take an exit that puts you 17 miles off course.

All while maintaining perfect eye-hand coordination, which, for me, is about as natural as juggling flaming swords while doing math out loud.

Driving is like a first-person video game I didn’t read the tutorial for. And unfortunately, it’s not on “easy mode.” This is full sensory chaos, and there are no respawn points.

Talking While Driving? Absolutely Not.

No. Just no.

The moment someone tries to talk to me while I’m driving, my brain kicks into emergency protocol. All non-driving functions are terminated.

"Hey, how was your day?"

Me:
"Silence, passenger. I am trying to merge."

I can either have a conversation or keep us alive in traffic. Pick one.

Quick Decisions? I can't do it.

Turn left in 500 feet? Oh no.

My brain:

“Should I start slowing down now?”

“Is it my turn or someone else’s?”

“Is the car behind me mad?”

“What if I just go straight and live there from now on?”

There are so many things happening all at once. People changing lanes without signalling. Pedestrians. Cyclists. Squirrels. That guy who’s somehow driving and vaping and live-streaming his dog.

There is no time to process. You either react instantly or panic silently and miss your turn. Again.

The Judgment Is Real (Even If It’s Not)

Every time I do something even slightly questionable—like hesitating for 0.8 seconds at a yellow light—I assume every driver around me is filing a mental complaint with the Department of “Ugh, That Driver.”

“Did I stop too soon?”

“Did I wait too long?”

“Was that a rude turn?”

“Did my blinkers convey the correct emotional tone?”

No one else is thinking about me. But my brain is convinced they are—and they are not impressed.

Honking = Personal Attack

Ah, yes. Honking. The universal sound for:

“Move!”

“Watch it!”

“You exist and I don’t like how you’re doing it!”

It doesn’t matter where the honk came from. It doesn’t matter if I’m parked in a Tim Hortons drive-thru and the honk came from the highway two kilometers  away—I assume it’s directed at me. Because clearly, I have committed some obscure traffic sin, and now all of society knows I am a menace behind the wheel.

Every honk feels like:

Judgment.

Shame.

I have clearly committed a social rule violation I didn’t know existed until just now and will obsess over for the next six years.

Turns out there's a name for that emotional rollercoaster when someone says "no" and your brain throws a full-blown Shakespearean tragedy—it's called Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria. And guess what? It's basically a VIP guest at the autism party.

If you see me driving, just know that behind the wheel is someone who:

Is trying really hard to follow all the rules,

Is overwhelmed, overstimulated, and unsure if they’re doing any of this correctly,

Just wants to get home so they can lie down in a dark room and recover from the sensory gauntlet known as Tuesday errands.

If you honk at me, I will assume I’ve failed as a person and consider becoming a forest hermit who never drives again.

Want to co-pilot my next trip? Just don’t talk. Or breathe too loud. Or change the music. Or exist in a judgmental way. Thanks.