Public Transport: More Than a Ride
For most people, public transport is simple: you buy a ticket, hop on, and get from A to B. But for me, and many other neurodivergent people, it’s the absolute definition of hell. The smells, the noise, the crowds pressing into your personal space, the weather, the delays, the unpredictability — it’s not a ride, it’s an obstacle course. And one that leaves me completely drained.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve walked away from a bus or train ride shaking, overstimulated, and bleeding from biting my lips and fingers just to cope.
The Whiplash of Switching States
Taking public transport feels like mental whiplash. I’m switching between modes constantly: hyper-alert for delays, scanning for empty seats, bracing for smells and noise, watching out for aggressive passengers, trying not to get lost in the sensory overload. It’s not just getting somewhere — it’s surviving the ride, and just keeping a smile to mask it all away from my surroundings.
The Stories That Stick
I have stories burned into my memory:
- Age 14: Packed into a bus, crushed between bomber jackets, boiling hot inside while freezing outside. Suddenly, a girl fainted and collapsed on the floor. As others rushed to help, I crouched down, trying to calm my racing heart and breath. By the time I arrived at school, my fingers were bleeding, and I was already done for the day.
- Age 16: Laughing with a friend on the bus. Suddenly, a stranger turned to me, furious: “You’re laughing at me because of my colored lenses!” Before I could react, she slapped me in the face. (I wasn’t talking about her, I didn’t even notice her before. I told the driver, who shrugged and said, “Not my problem.” My dad literally chased down the bus to confront the girls. That moment of protection meant everything to me.
- Age 22: Commuting from Almere to Amsterdam with my foldable bike. I locked it to a pole in the train, not realizing it wasn’t allowed. The conductor stormed in, screaming, threatening to throw me off. Even after I unlocked it, he kept raging until passengers stepped in to defend me. I was shaking for hours.
And these are just a handful of stories. I have at least dozens more.
The People Factor
It doesn’t help that much of the staff are underpaid, overworked, and regularly abused by passengers. I’ve seen them spat on, yelled at, and physically threatened. They’re stressed, and sometimes, they break. And when they break, I’ve been their safe target more than once. I’ve been screamed at by staff for absolutely nothing, at least six times.
But there have also been moments of kindness. Like the bus driver who saw me panicking at 13 when I couldn’t find my card and just waved me in. Or the Amsterdam tram conductor who rhymed every stop announcement, making the whole tram laugh. Small things that felt huge in the middle of chaos.
The Neurodivergent Cost
For me, public transport isn’t just inconvenient. It’s exhausting. It’s overstimulating. It’s anxiety-inducing. Every trip eats up energy I don’t have to spare. By the time I arrive, I’m not just physically there, I’m mentally wiped.
And here’s the kicker: it’s expensive. In the Netherlands, you pay ridiculous prices for the privilege of being stuck in a crowded, sweaty, noisy sensory hellscape. At least in other countries, the misery is cheaper.
For many autistic, ADHD, or otherwise neurodivergent people, this isn’t just whining. It’s reality. It’s why so many of us avoid it when we can, or why we need extra recovery time when we can’t.
It’s not just a ride. It’s survival.
