The 12 Neurodivergent Traits of Christmas (A festive guide for the spicy-brained among us)
Christmas: the season of joy, excess, twinkly lights and — if you’re neurodivergent — mild to moderate existential dread wrapped in tinsel.
Every year, the world seems to erupt into a frenzy of socialising, gift-buying, sensory overload and forced fun, while those of us with neurodivergent nervous systems quietly whisper, “This feels… a lot.”
So in the spirit of festive honesty, and inspired by our Christmas Special on The Business Oddcast, we present to you: The 12 Neurodiverse Traits of Christmas — a gently chaotic, deeply truthful, and slightly feral look at why this season can feel like an endurance sport for ND folk.
Each trait comes with humour, chaos, and the lived experience of two neurodivergent adults just trying to survive December without ruining yet another Christmas for everyone else. (You’re welcome, families.)
Let’s begin, shall we?
1. New year, same you!
Ah yes, the annual performance review conducted by… myself, in the bath, on Boxing Day. Everywhere you look, people are talking about “new year, new me”, as if some miracle occurs as January limps into view. Spoiler….it doesn’t. Or rather that’s been my experience for the last 50 or so years. Us ND’s can get this special extra layer of festive joy: the delusional belief that next year we’ll suddenly be organised, consistent, socially competent, and able to reply to emails without needing a lie-down afterwards. Double spoiler: we might well not. And that’s ok. This whole self-improvement-at-gunpoint thing is basically the Christmas cracker of internal pressure — loud, dramatic, and inside you’ll find a tiny plastic disappointment. P.s. If you must make a resolution, make it something achievable like “drink water occasionally”.
2. Small talk
It’s just about bearable, esp. with people you might not have seen for a while as you get to have a bit of a catch up but… then 5 mins in and you forget you are having a conversation in the middle of the conversation – the other person says something that your brain latches onto and yoinks you out of the flow of the story like a cartoon character pulled off stage with a hook.
Why do we need to know what your friend’s sister’s dog did last week? Your conversational partner is clearly no Scorsese, and rambles down side streets, and off on wild segues into other boring stuff. It is the conversational equivalent of being handed bags of stuff, and being asked to deal with it. You end up with armfuls of garbage and guff, the feeling that if this doesn’t end soon you might just run headlong into the nearest wall persists. It may be less painful than a deep dive into Marion’s colonoscopy last week. I tell you what, you can stick her colonoscopy up your… oh.
3. Sensory overload season
Christmas is basically a month-long assault on all five senses, no doubt created by a neurotypical person (Just kidding, or am I?). Flashing lights, loud music, small children off their faces on Quality Street and the promise of Santa. Not forgetting the overcrowded spaces, scratchy jumpers, and Slade on the radio every other song screaming “It’s Christmas” in a bizarrely angry sounding voice that I have never quite understood. Wait a minute!…..maybe he was of the spicy variety!? Parties smell like overly processed beige food, and bad decisions. There is a constant soundtrack of someone munching their way through a giant tub of cheese balls. For the love of god, can everyone just put down the snacks for a second. My brain spends December sobbing in a corner with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones on.
4. The Xmas spreadsheet
I cook the roast, we have a big bird, and all the trimmings, inc. enough for the Vegans. I prep everything the night before where I can, plan my workspace meticulously. Ensuring we have enough utensils and pots, pans and kitchen ephemera to support the two cooking flows for the carnivores and the vegans. It’s like a concert, imagine a F1 Pit Stop, but turkey, trimmings and timers. A full and detailed breakdown of the timings, and main steps in a spreadsheet, with corresponding alarms on my phone is a must. If I am unable to complete my mission, it should be able to be completed by my Sous, luckily I have a daughter who is hospitality trained and she dances around my darting-bulk whisking away various discarded implements and averting danger. The collaborative Christmas Robin to my Batmange Tout. It starts with my waking alarm and the cooking time of the bird and adjust so lunch is ready at 12:00pm for 12:30 service. This ritual has ensured a 100% christmas meal success rate BOOM!. It does mean I miss a lot of the unwrapping of presents, and various social interactions but it does ensure I eat EXACTLY what I need to on Xmas day all done whilst listening to some top tunes! NOE! That’s What I Call ND Christmas.
5. Christmas work parties…
Or as I like to call them The Hunger Games, but with tinsel. Everyone pretending they want to be there, downing the free booze like someone is going to take it off them. For me, it’s not just the people — it’s the combination of noise, unstructured mingling, and the terror of someone dragging me onto the dance floor to bust out some moves that should have stayed in the 90’s. The last office party I went to, which thankfully was in a previous employed life, I ended up slapping ‘Anne from accounts’ hand off my arm, during one of those enforced dancefloor moments. And growling “get off me” in a slightly psychotic voice. Not my finest moment. Anyway, I digress. It’s totally ok to stand by the exit like a Victorian ghost. In fact I actively encourage it. If you must attend, locate the quiet corner immediately. There is always one. Usually near the coats. Become the Coat Goblin. It’s peaceful there.
6. Unwrapping presents
This is always a cause of frustration in our house. Whilst the various family members are scrabbling at their gifts like velociraptors clawing open a vehicle full of teens. My daughter and I are peeling the tape off, untying the knotted ribbons, and ensuring we take time to appreciate the wrapping, and unwrapping experience. We make a ball of the tape and flatten out the paper, my intention is to reuse it (and whilst some DOES get reused most gets recycled). It feels wasteful to use it and not reuse it, and always useful for a last minute regifting. All the while the assembled throng tut and huff, as we’re slowing the process down, but the greater the pressure to confirm, the less likely we are to speed up… Hi there PDA, we’ve been expecting you… But, you know, PDA turns up when IT wants to, not when it is told to… so, there’s suddenly an uninvited item in the baggage area and our brains are more stubborn than a definitely double dead donkey.
7. ‘Must see everyone’ pressure
Christmas apparently turns us all into migratory birds — flying around visiting every relative, friend, colleague, neighbour, neighbour’s dog, and that person you haven’t seen since 2014 who pops up saying “we should do a festive drink!”. No. No, we should not. The social expectation that you must “catch up before Christmas” is wild. Why? I don’t want to ‘catch up’ the rest of the year. Adding turkey doesn’t change that! I’ve sent you a card, for goodness sake. Is that not enough of me? Top tip – Sending a ‘let’s catch up in January’ response usually allows said person the time for the December enthusiasm to dwindle and they return to realising they survived without seeing you the rest of the year. So all is good – Bullet dodged.
8. Be a Christmas turtle
Just like we overfill our plates and spend the entire time regretting it, after all 6 mince pies is a LOT of mince pies between meals, we NDs overestimate just how much socialising we can do.
Sometimes you find yourself with the familial obligation and expectation of a party to attend and realise that you have 5% battery and are on reduced power, or “Turtle Mode” as our Nissan Leaf EV likes to call running on reduced battery. Decisions take longer, and thoughts ping around with no outlet for their outcomes.
TOP TIP. Take a Party Holiday. If I’m getting overwhelmed, I take myself off, usually to find a cat and have a cuddle and a cooldown. I’ve even been known to take a 30 minute nap, mid party… even if it is at someone else’s house. Sometimes, if we’re at home that nap can extend through to the morning and I find I have noped out the party. I’ve even escaped and had a doze in the car. I simply can’t enjoy myself if I have zero energy spoons, so this helps to sustain me, a sleep snack if you will.
TOP TIP TWO: We plan “zero days”, no expectations, no plans and no demands. Today the menu is “Feed yourself from the pile of offerings and left-overs in the fridge and cupboards”. You join in the games and TV you want to, with no guilt, shame or repeatedly begging people to do things because “We’re a family…”. It’s a chance to center and recharge, and they are 100% key to successful Christmas celebrations in our household. Sometimes you just need to pull in your arms, and legs and hide in your shell…
9. Routine shuffler
Ah, the magical Christmas limbo week — where time dissolves and we all slowly lose touch with reality. Staggering around our houses, faces covered in chocolate snaffling for snacks like a truffle pig. Because our new life has temporarily become one of eating, watching terrible TV, and finding our nearest and dearest more annoying than usual. Neurotypical people call this “relaxing”. I call it “being trapped in a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking”. No routine. No structure. Meals at random times. Days blending into each other like a hideous festive groundhog day. I am a much nicer person when I know what is happening, when it is happening, and who will be there. My unsolicited advice?: Give yourself three anchor points in the day — wake-ish, eat-ish, bed-ish — and everything else can float. This should stop you maiming your relatives.
10. Food droughts
We’re a few days into the Xmas season, you’re not sure what day of the week it is, but you know it’s somewhere between Christmas Day and New Year. Mid morning you get reminded that we’re off to some party or other that evening. You chug through your day, and find yourself at the party, and realise there’s no safe food, or actually the “food” choices are either cheese or onion or ready salted… WHO THE FU.. I Mean C’MON! Ready salted crisps? It’s the beige of the snack world…
Two drinks in you realise there’s not going to be much in the way of food and at best “nibbles” is gonna have to sustain you. OR, worse, they pull out all the pizzas, meaty, veggie, cheesy and BBQ-ee, it’s like Dominos are doing a taster menu. Except, of course, Stu cannot eat gluten, not in a “I prefer not to” way, more in a “bloated stomach and horrible pains for 24hrs until the poison exits the system, rapidly and in several violent and short bursts.” way. However, if I have had a couple of drinks… and it’s good pizza… But, I have learned that having a bag of nuts or a flapjack handy, can stop the two days of suffering the consequences of being glutened. Of course that is then 2 disregulated days, lost to regret shame, proximity to the bathroom and low mood and therefore poor energy. GLUTEN, just say NO!
11. Buying pressure
The gift-buying spiral is real. Neurotypicals seem to breeze around shops humming along to “Last Christmas” and eating the free mince pies. Whilst I’m pacing the aisles ranting things like “I don’t even like this person. Why do I have to buy them a present” as I pick up a pair of overpriced socks. Nothing says “I just don’t care” more than a scented candle or socks. And yet they become the default present for most of the family. Occasionally I trick myself into wanting to make more effort and my brain goes full investigation mode: what do they use? What do they own? What colours do they wear? What did they post on Instagram 43 weeks ago? It’s a level of analysis MI5 should aspire to. Then there’s wrapping… but we’ve already covered wrapping trauma, so I’ll park that. All I know is: Christmas shopping turns my executive function into a pile of dropped baubles. If in doubt chocolate is a safe bet!
12. Gormless guests
As one might expect, I am quite self-directed, with a lot of agency and ability. I expect the same from everyone else, which is a pain when dealing with guests. Obv. I wish them to be comfortable, but I am not running around like a butler ensuring they are waited on hand, foot and finger. Want a cuppa? There’s the cupboard. Need a spoon? Figure it out, start in the kitchen, find a drawer, go from there. You’re unlikely to find any surprises in the kitchen cupboards, we don’t keep the dildoes next to the jams. I do not mind showing you and helping and assisting, but don’t sit there gasping for a cuppa, go make one. I am unlikely to ask, I will forget my own needs, let alone those of others. Esp. when I am 2 hours into solving a particularly challenging Christmas gift.
At the same time, if I am a guest, don’t faff about asking me constant questions, “Everything OK?” , “Need anything?”, etc.. If my needs are not being met I shall mention them, unless of course the party is in full swing in which case I will solo-mission my way to finding what I need… So if you are sitting waiting to be asked, then that’s on you!
And there we have it — the 12 Neurodiverse Traits of Christmas
If you recognised yourself in even one of these, congratulations: you’ve unlocked the “Surviving the Festive Season” achievement badge. It comes with absolutely no prizes except the knowledge that you are not, in fact, the only person who wants to hide behind the coats at the work party.
Christmas is weird. Christmas when you’re neurodivergent is… extra weird. But it doesn’t mean you’re broken, or anti-social, or “not festive enough.” It just means your brain likes clarity, calm, predictability, and to not be ambushed by Marion’s colonoscopy chat while you’re trying to eat a mince pie.
So however you celebrate — loudly, quietly, begrudgingly, or by noping out halfway through and having a nap in your car — may your Christmas be as peaceful and manageable as possible.
And remember: survival is enough.
Anything beyond that? A Christmas miracle.
Happy Merrymas and a Sparkly New Year, see you on the other side…
Neurodivergent Holidays – Packing, Panic & Pretending to Relax
I have a confession that I’ve learnt over the years is not the popular choice: I don’t like holidays. And because holidays feel like the societal currency of success, there’s quite a bit of shame wrapped up in admitting you don’t like them.
For a lot of people, holidays are the shiny prize at the end of months of grind. You work hard, you earn a “break”, you go somewhere sunny and allegedly “switch off”. But for me, I just don’t see it that way.
This is made all the more difficult given that about 80% of pre summer small talk circles around how you plan to spend your time off. It’s endless! “Going anywhere nice this year?”, “Got any holidays booked?”. Then there’s 3 months of social media being drenched in “don’t mind if I do, cocktails by the pool” photos, and notifications telling you that one of your friends has just uploaded 463 photos to their #soblessed Fakebook photo album. Sorry Carol, but there are only so many photos of your lobster-red family (none, if you are asking!) that one can feign interest in when it comes to someone else’s holiday. And if you’re thinking “what is the appropriate number of photos to share on social media, the answer is”none “,”no photos”, “nada, nope and nooooo” photos!.
When I nonchalantly announce that I plan to take some time off and hang around my house, maybe venturing out on the occasional day trip if I feel daring enough, the look I get can only be described as a mix of confusion and pity. Or they just do an awkward laugh that tells me they have no idea what to do with that information.
So if holidays don’t feel relaxing to you either, this blog’s for you. This isn’t a guide to having the “perfect” break. This is a shout out to everyone who finds holidays complicated, exhausting, or downright pointless… and the permission to do ‘rest’ your own way, even if that might look different to some.
The holiday anxiety starts the moment someone suggests it
For me, the anxiety takes up residence in my brain the second someone says, “We should go away.” I haven’t been on a ‘proper’ holiday abroad in about eight years. I see that as a massive win. My husband probably doesn’t share my enthusiasm, because he loves holidays and has inexplicably chosen to be married to me, but here we are.
The minute a holiday is mentioned, my brain starts running a full diagnostic on everything that would need to be in place before we leave. Is my work covered? Have I replied to everyone? Will the heating be okay? Who’s feeding the cats? What if something breaks while we’re gone? What if I’ve forgotten something crucial and can’t fix it because I’m in another country with the wrong plug sockets and no printer?
Packing is a whole separate hell. A neurotypical person might think: “We’re going somewhere warm. I’ll pack for warm.” My brain goes: “But what if it isn’t warm? What if it’s windy? What if it’s humid-but-chilly? What if the jumper I packed feels fine at home and suddenly turns into sandpaper while I’m away? What if I need options for all seven versions of my skin?”
It’s not just “have I packed enough clothes?” It’s “have I packed clothes that will feel okay on my body in a climate I can’t predict, in moods I haven’t had yet, in sensory states I don’t know about until I’m in them?” So I over-pack. Obviously.
Then comes the weight-limit panic. Once the giant suitcase is full, my brain immediately flips to, “The airline is going to charge me £5,000 because this weighs more than a small car.” Cue repacking. Sorting. Weighing. Taking things out. Putting them back in. Negotiating with myself about how many emergency jumpers one woman really needs. By the time we even lock the case, I already need a nap and possibly a small breakdown.
Airport security: my face says “drug mule”
If there’s one place where my autistic anxiety and my ADHD mouth love to team up, it’s airport security. I once flew to the US in my early twenties and had to go through one of those extra-intense interviews at immigration. Under pressure, all useful information immediately vacates my brain. I stood there shaking, fumbling through papers, mumbling things like, “Sightseeing? I don’t know? Just… doing stuff?”
I completely forgot both the name and where I had put the address of the friends of my family that I was staying with. And then, because my internal monologue has no volume control, I blurted out: “I’m not a drug mule or anything.” Exactly what a drug mule would say.
I didn’t get arrested, obviously, but the look they gave me was… memorable. When I’m anxious, my face pulls “I’m hiding contraband” expressions for fun. I overcompensate, I ramble, I make terrible jokes and then wonder why everyone is staring at me like I’ve brought a kilo of cocaine in my carry-on.
So no, security doesn’t feel like “the exciting gateway to adventure.” It feels like a test I don’t understand, with questions I’m not prepared for, in a system that already thinks I’m suspicious because I can’t stand still and behave ‘normally.’
The real problem: control, or lack thereof
At home, I have escape routes. If everything gets too much, I can retreat to my bedroom, the garden, the sofa, my favourite chair. I know where to go to calm down. I know the rules, the layout, the lighting, the temperature, the sounds. On holiday, all of that disappears.
One year, we rented a villa in France. It should have been idyllic — little house, nice weather, all very Pinterest. I remember standing outside the villa feeling utterly overwhelmed, scanning my surroundings and thinking, “Where’s my safe place?” There wasn’t one. In the end I got in the hire car, drove to a random supermarket, and just wandered around the aisles like a ghost. Not because I needed groceries. Just because it was the closest thing to “normal” I could find — fluorescent lighting, familiar-shaped shelves, products in rows. It gave me a little anchor in a world that suddenly felt completely unmoored.
Leaving the UK makes that feeling even sharper. It’s not that France is far away; it’s that it feels inaccessible. If things get unbearable on a day trip, I can at least get in my car and come home. If I’m in another country, my brain registers it as: “you’re here forever. “
Holidays ask me to give up control of my environment, my routines, my foods, my exits… and then “relax.” It doesn’t work like that for me.
When everyone is spicy: family holidays and sensory chaos
It’s not just my brain I’m managing on holiday either; I’m not the only neurodivergent one in the family. So when we’ve done the Family Holiday thing, it hasn’t been just one person struggling; it’s a big old mixed bag of meltdowns.
Picture it: one child is in bits because the Wi-Fi doesn’t work properly and their online world — their safe place — has vanished. Someone else is overwhelmed by new smells, noises, and textures. I’m freaking out about control and routine. My husband is quietly re-evaluating all his life choices. It’s not that we don’t love each other. It’s that you can’t take four nervous systems that rely on predictability, special interests, and carefully crafted habits… then dump them in a loud, unfamiliar environment full of strangers and expect it to go well.
We once did a UK holiday park — big entertainment complex, lots of screaming children, drum and bass through caravan walls at 5am. My husband basically faked a stomach bug by day three just so he could tap out. He used me as a human shield — “Don’t come near, I’m contagious” — and hid in the bedroom while I took the kids into the arcade chaos. Honestly? I respect the strategy.
The “relaxation” myth
Here’s the bit that really messes with my head: holidays are sold as relaxation. “You need a break.” “Get away from it all.” “Switch off.” Great in theory. In practice, when you’re neurodivergent, holidays can feel like an endurance test.
My daily life at home is built around routines that work for my energy, my brain and my nervous system. I know when I need quiet. I know when I can people and when I absolutely cannot. I structure my work around it as much as I can. Take all that away and plant me in another country and suddenly I’m around people all the time. I don’t control the noise. Meal times are different. Sleep is disrupted. Food is unfamiliar. I can’t get to my safe spots. My regular self-regulation routines are gone.
That’s not relaxing — that’s extra cognitive load. And then, on top of all that, there’s the emotional pressure to “make memories”, “enjoy every second”, “get your money’s worth” and be visibly grateful because “some people would kill for this.” No wonder I come back from holidays more exhausted than when I left.
The holiday hangover: three weeks for a one-week break
One of the reasons I avoid holidays now is the sheer time and energy cost. For me, a one-week holiday looks like a week before of prep, admin, packing and anxiety; a week during of sensory overload and pretending I’m fine; and a week afterwards of decompression and trying to reintegrate back into real life.
That’s three weeks of disrupted functioning for a single week of “rest” that didn’t feel restful. At that point, staying home with my own kettle, my own bed, my own food, and my own sofa starts to look less “boring” and more “deeply wise.”
Despite everything, I don’t think all holidays are doomed forever. I just think the standard template — flights, sun, enforced fun, daily activities — doesn’t work brilliantly for a lot of neurodivergent brains.
The breaks that have worked better for me tend to be short, nearby, and familiar. A couple of nights in a UK city, a hotel chain where I know roughly what the room will be like, a place where I can get home if I need to. Everyone gets their own space. Our last family trip was a weekend to York. It worked pretty well as the kids had their own rooms. We had ours. We set the tone early: you don’t have to spend every second together. If you want to disappear into your room and read for two hours, that is more than fine. It’s survival.
My fantasy holiday (and why it involves nobody else)
My husband once asked me, “If we won the lottery, what would your perfect holiday be?” I described an island with hardly anyone else on it, where someone quietly ships in food and books, and I just potter around by myself in peace. He said, “That sounds amazing — I could do that.” I said, “No. Just me. Not even the kids. Literally just me.”
It sounds awful written down, but it’s not about not loving my family. I adore them. It’s about cognitive load. If I’m on holiday with them, my brain doesn’t stop tracking everyone’s needs. I don’t stop listening, scanning, checking: “Are they okay? Are they overwhelmed? Are they bored? Are they hungry?” I can’t switch that off. That’s the mum load, the ND load, all in one. To feel genuinely rested, I need that channel to be quiet too.
Redefining what a “good holiday” looks like
Society tends to treat holidays as a scoreboard. “Where did you go this year?” “How many countries have you visited?” As if the number of times you’ve sat in an airport somehow proves you’re “winning” at life.
I’ve started opting out of that game. I’m not interested in racking up “experiences” just because that’s what everyone else seems to be doing. I’m much more interested in crafting a life that doesn’t require me to escape it constantly.
For me, that looks like more rest in my everyday life, less pressure to prove I’m having fun, being honest that holidays don’t feel relaxing, and letting go of the idea that I’m “boring” or “failing” if I don’t go away. If your idea of a perfect break is a week at home with no plans, no alarms, and no small talk, that is just as valid as two weeks in Ibiza. You’re not doing life wrong. You’re just doing it in a way that works for your nervous system.
Permission time!
So, if you’re a neurodivergent human who dreads packing, panics at airport security, needs a full week to recover from a “relaxing” trip, or secretly prefers your own sofa to any beach on earth… this is your reminder that there is nothing wrong with you.
Holidays, as sold to us, are not designed with us in mind. They assume flexible routines, low sensory sensitivity, high tolerance for uncertainty, and a brain that finds novelty more exciting than terrifying. If that’s not you, you are allowed to opt out — or redesign the whole idea.
You are allowed to say no to the big trips. You are allowed to do short, gentle, nearby breaks. You are allowed to rest at home and call it a holiday. You are allowed to like your own bed more than a resort. You are allowed to want a life you don’t constantly need a break from.
And if anyone at the hairdresser asks, “Going anywhere nice this year?” You can smile and say, “Yes, actually. My living room. It’s perfect.”