Neurospicy at Glastonbury: Why Festivals Break My Brain (and How I Learned to Survive Them)

I’m currently watching Glastonbury from my sofa, pyjamas on, bare feet, snacks in hand, and vibrating with musical joy. And yes—the FOMO is real. Music is my special interest, my sanctuary, my serotonin. But festivals? Pure sensory hell.

The first (and only) time I went to Glastonbury, I was a teenager who didn’t yet know she was AuDHD. I just thought I was bad at camping. Bad at noise. Bad at crowds. Bad at being grubby. Bad at being rock n roll. Bad at being a good sport. Turns out, I wasn’t bad—I was neurodivergent.

Here’s how it went: We drove down on the thursday, and I didn’t really plan. I thought I knew gigs, being a girl who grew up 20 mins from the centre of London, and went gigging two or three nights a week. (ADHD brain winging it, and getting it very wrong indeed)

The tent poles got forgotten. The beginning of the end for me. A dodgy makeshift affair was strung up using the only tree we could find in the camping field, which happened to be right by the thoroughfare the drug dealers stood in whilst shouting out their wares.

It rained. We got wet. Somehow or other we managed to get through the night and grab an hour or two of rest, between the cries of “Hashish…Billy Whizz… Eeeezzzzzz…. Senseeeee “

The next morning (friday) the sun came up. I got surprised by my period coming unexpectedly. Tried to improvise with toilet tissue. Realised we only had one roll between the 3 of us. Felt supremely gross. Forced myself to soldier on.

Ate a 10 quid curry for breakfast (10 quid in 1994 was a lot of money - my tickets for the whole weekend was only 6o, as I remember - and curry for breakfast was strong even for my strange ‘pre Crohns‘ eating habits. But I really wanted to have the experience so I tried to go with the flow.

I already felt like a “lightweight” because I was one of the few people from the peer group who wasn’t brave enough to scale the perimeter wall and try to get in for free, as everyone “cool” did in those days.

So, I smoked some dodgy weed. Spent a few good hours in the sunshine, hanging with my buddies and watching the world and it’s ‘face painted, juggling unicycling,’ brother go by. I even remember feeling ‘yes, this is what the world should and could be like all the time, in my stoned free daze.

Until I got sunstroke.

Which caused me to pass out in a compost toilet (Have you ever smelled a trench of shit lying out in the midday sun? No judgement allowed till you have!)

I was awoken by a stranger trying to sell me ketamine through the cubicle door. I had to run to escape the insistent dealer, and the smell that threatened to flatten me (smell is my ND spidey sense you see) again.

At that point, I grabbed my (then) boyfriend and my (still) best friend - the people I came with - and pleaded with them to let me begin the 5 mile hike to the car park. Where I immediately called my older sister (who luckily lives near Pilton) and asked her if I could come and use her bathroom facilities please.

I remember hearing the Manics (one of the bands I was there for) beginning their set as I maneovred the overwhelming legions of bodies walking into me as I tried to pass through the pyramid stage area. Getting out of the vast festival site was not quick or painless though. Every step I took in my mud caked DMs felt heavy and tortured, as my overwhelm thermometer exploded through it’s measuring guage, and I felt blisters burning my hot clammy feet.

It was not the euphoric spiritual experience I’d hoped for. It was overstimulation, poor planning, and zero accommodations for my nervous system.

It amazes me how clearly I remember the physical sensations from that first major meltdown in my life. Would I have guessed that I was neurodivergent even if I had known what neurodivergence was? In those days, we had no idea.

I was just ‘high maintenance’.

🎧 Why Festivals Break My Neurodivergent Brain

For me—and for a lot of ND folks—festivals are a perfect storm:

• Too much noise (all the time)

• Too many people (too close)

• Unpredictable schedules and loud 3am drum circles

• Sensory triggers: sun, mud, portaloos, sleep deprivation

• Zero recovery time or alone space

And yet... we love music. We want to be part of it. We want to cry during PJ Harvey’s set and scream-sing Bowie under the stars around a fire. We just can’t do it the same way everyone else does.

🛠 So—Can Neurodivergent People Actually Do Festivals?

Yes. But not without support. And not by pretending we’re fine when we’re hanging on by a stim toy.

The key isn’t forcing ourselves to “toughen up.” It’s prepping for how we work.

That’s why I created the Neurospicy Festival Survival Kit—a printable tool designed for neurodivergent campers, sensory-sensitive festival-goers, and exhausted humans who just want to enjoy the music without frying their nervous systems.

It’s therapist-created (by me), meltdown-tested (also me), and full of structure, humor, and tools that help you prep, regulate, and recover.

Here’s what’s in it:

• Sensory survival checklist (loop earplugs to safe exits)

• Executive function helpers (overwhelm hacks + social scripts)

• Camping & comfort essentials

• Crisis plan, affirmation cards, and “Please Be Nice” wallet cards

• A post-festival debrief and gentle self-reassurance page

Whether you’re doing Glasto or Glasto-from-the-couch, this kit meets you where you are.

→ Grab the kit here ←

💡 5 Therapist-Backed Tips for a Neurodivergent-Friendly Festival

1. Never camp unless you have to. Book a B&B if you can. You’re not less of a fan.

2. Loop earplugs + sunglasses = essential armor. Sensory regulation starts early.

3. Go with one trusted person. Or make a solo plan with scheduled exit options.

4. Create a sensory emergency pack. Think cooling wipes, stim toy, salty snacks.

5. Give yourself permission to leave. Seriously. There’s no medal for burning out.

🎤 Final Thoughts From a Washed-Up Glasto Failure Who Still Thinks It’s The Best Weekend Of The Year

Loving music and hating festivals doesn’t make you broken. It just means you need different support.

You’re allowed to choose the field, the tent, or the sofa. You’re allowed to regulate and rock out. You’re allowed to love loud music and still crave silence. That doesn’t make you less fun. It makes you human.

And if your brain needs a bit of extra structure to handle the chaos?

You’re not alone. The kit’s right here when you need it.

Created by Creative Therapy Printables – psychotherapist-designed tools for neurodivergent and sensitive minds.