I recently had the privilege of being funded to travel overseas (UK to Australia) to visit a leading academic in my field. I am sharing my experience with you because I am an internally presenting autistic woman (the kind often subjected to the “but you don’t seem autistic” comments). Perhaps because of how I appear, it might be assumed that travelling across continents to a completely new environment, solo, would be no less challenging for me than for a neurotypical person. Autism is not a mental illness, but I experience generalised anxiety in response to trying to fit into a hectic, unpredictable world, which is incompatible with my brain.

Unsurprisingly, my anxiety disorder greatly fluctuates depending on the environment I am in. When I am in relatively familiar contexts, with a controlled sensory environment, I am fine with travelling alone; for example, when getting my regular early train to work. I know that my train will be fairly empty – most of the time. However, I have also had experiences of meltdown when plunged into unpredictable and overwhelming travelling contexts. For example, when I unexpectedly had to get on a very crowded rail replacement bus service when returning from a training course. I ended up getting off in tears, unable to speak. My mental health was fried for the following week, and I was only just about able to continue with activities of daily living. For me, this highlights why it is critical that we support autistic and other neurodivergent people with environmental adaptations – because they can literally make or break you.    

Despite these prior experiences, my research visit to Australia was still incredible and re-affirmed my motivations for entering academia. However, I want to highlight that for myself (and quite possibly many autistic people) such trips can be very challenging without appropriate support. 

Preparation, preparation, preparation

I knew that preparation was going to be key to helping me overcome potential challenges on the trip. On prior UK research trips, I noticed that a lack of familiarity contributed to my intense anxiety. I would typically arrive a day before the event so I could get a feel for the venue space. This was not possible for Australia. Therefore, in the fortnight leading up to the visit, preparation was even more my mission. I re-watched Collin from Accounts (an Australian TV series with a very cute dog), because a) I love dogs, and b) the TV show is amazing, and helped to ease my anxieties about visiting Australia, which was a totally new country to me. I spent many hours watching YouTube videos to help me visualise the new environments I would be in – the airport terminal, the campus of the university I was visiting, and even what the road crossings look like (I have a particular thing about the rules for crossing roads). YouTube is great for this, and free. However, the time to prepare was not free. It was stressful trying to balance this preparation whilst simultaneously having to meet essential pre-trip deadlines (data collection, two paper submissions and an ethics application – eek). This inevitably impacted my mental health, and I noted that in the evenings my brain would shut down because it was just so tired. But the preparation had to be done. 

Another key part of the preparation was drawing up an ‘action plan’ of what I might do in case of certain scenarios, such as being next to a loud person on the plane, sensory overwhelm at the airport, or getting lost once I’d arrived. I know that my brain can go into shutdown in these situations, so having something clearly thought out, with written notes to refer to, was very important. I also planned to use my sunflower lanyard, to alert airport staff that I might need some assistance. It was only when I arrived by myself at Sydney airport in the evening that I realised that highlighting my vulnerability to others might make me less safe, not more. 

Incorporating familiar routines into an unfamiliar environment

One of the biggest challenges I faced was having to cope with so much ‘newness’, without having my familiar routines to make me feel safe and support my mental health. Tea, TV and videos of my dog were my key strategies here.

1. Tea – at least two cups of Yorkshire tea in the morning, and an additional tea/s if I needed comfort.
2. TV – downloads of my favourite TV shows (Only Fools and Horses, Wallace and Gromit), to watch just before bed. This is what I usually do at home and have done so for years. 
3. Dog videos – each day, my awesome partner video recorded the ‘good morning’ and ‘bed-time’ routine with my dog, Florence, which is a staple of my routine at home. 

I would go as far as to say that without being able to ‘transfer’ these important routines to Australia, the trip would not have been possible.  To someone who does not experience severe anxiety caused by changes to routine, they may seem simple. However, for me they were essential. They provided me with familiarity, and a sense of comfort and safety in turn. These examples are obviously very individual to me, but I think that the general strategy of identifying and applying familiar routines into new environments could be useful to many other autistic people. 

You can’t control the uncontrollable

Life is unpredictable, and people are unpredictable. For all the planning in the world, you cannot account for every scenario. There were some uncontrollable aspects of my trip that went well. Others, not so much. 

One of the uncontrollable things that worked out well was seating on the flight. I have a strong awareness of personal space, and although I can tolerate shorter flights within close proximity to a stranger, a 15-hour flight places more demand on my internal resources.  As luck would have it, I had a spare seat next to me on the long-haul flight (I’d really won the lottery with that one!). I’m not sure how I would have felt landing in Sydney after being squashed up next to a stranger for that length of time. 

The second uncontrollable thing that worked out well was that the team I was visiting turned out to be supportive, with a positive research culture. They were kind and accommodated my needs considerately. Importantly, they also asked me questions about my academic work to challenge me and to help build my skills. I am privileged to have had this positive experience as I know this is not always the case in academia. The term “autism” comes with pre-determined stereotypes for some people, and I have experienced insidious instances of prejudice in the past. However, I decided to be open about being autistic on this trip because, quite frankly, I knew I would need support for the trip to be a success. After seeing the research centre lead do a presentation the previous year, I had a sense for who she was and her values, and suspected that she would probably understand. Luckily my bet paid off. 

One thing you cannot control is other people and how they interact with you. I was diagnosed only two years ago and grew up with a heavy sense of internalised ableism, masking, and the need to perform for others. As I’ve grown older, I’ve become steadily more confident in “being me”, particularly when I am with familiar people and/or in familiar situations where I feel safe. However, when this familiarity is stripped back, and my brain is in hyper-processing mode (e.g., changes to my routine, sensory overload from sounds), this is much more difficult. I then tend to take people more at face value, as I don’t have the cognitive bandwidth to interpret what is being communicated beyond the obvious. 

This is why I really struggled during an interaction with an older man on trip, who was sat across from me on a bus. He started chatting to me about the tattoo on my arm. He reached over and stroked it – not something I at all invited or wanted him to do. I was confused because he seemed friendly and genuine, which made me go into high masking and people-pleasing mode. I became gradually more uncomfortable with his line of questioning but did not know why. He asked me where I was staying so that he could give me a lift there. I politely said no, and that I was being picked up (thankfully, this was the truth). He repeatedly asked me if I was travelling alone, after I did not answer him the first time round. I just froze; I did not know how I should respond. It was horrible. Thankfully, a fellow passenger jumped in and told him that he was being inappropriate. I am so thankful that she did. What if she had not been there?

Internalised ableism and requesting support

The preparation and incorporation of familiar routines into my research trip were key to it being a success. They helped alleviate my anxiety and foster a sense of safety. Importantly, they were within my control – but you cannot plan for everything. Parts of my trip were successful because of chance, not planning. It could easily have turned out differently. What if I did not have a spare seat next to me on the plane? What if there had been no-one to jump in during my interaction on the bus? 

If I want to attend a festival or event in the UK, I have what is called an access card (anyone can apply if they have supporting medical evidence – mine was my diagnostic report). My access card has a +1 symbol, which means that I get a “free” carer ticket for someone to support me when I attend an event. Before I went to Australia, it did not even occur to me that I might need the same level of support when travelling for a research visit because, well, would asking for that not be a sign of weakness? As a PhD researcher, should I not be able to problem-solve these challenges myself? 

At the same time, I cannot problem-solve myself into being neurotypical. I was gaslighting myself by telling these harmful narratives. Academic funding is a precarious thing at the best of times, but funding for carers on a research trip is not a “nice thing” for some with invisible disabilities – it is essential.  With funders such as the UK NIHR (National institute of Health Research) now having funds for disabled fellows to have appropriate support, I hope that we continue heading in the right direction. 

Conclusion

If you take one key message away from my article, it is that neurodivergent individuals (including those with anxiety caused by a high level of sensory needs and need for routine and familiarity) can have highly successful research visits to unfamiliar places, many miles away from home. However, extra preparation is needed, which adds stress onto pre-existing workloads. Additional reasonable adjustments (such as a +1) may also be needed for some individuals, and there is no shame in asking for them. What are the alternatives? 1. Our opportunities for development are limited, 2. We plough on through and break down. Neither of these benefit the scientific/academic community. 

Lucy Rodgers is a Wellcome funded Health Advances in under-Represented Populations and diseases-HARP) Clinical PhD fellow at City St Georges, University of London. She is co-designing a novel intervention for pre-school children with co-occurring speech and language needs. As a speech and language therapist, she is passionate about communication rights for all. You can find her on X at @lucy_r_slt or on Bluesky at @lucyrodgerssalt.bsky.social

This blog is kindly sponsored by G-Research