Trying to Run 500 Miles as an AuDHDer

The sensory experience of this challenge is what I want to share today – not the running itself.

I’ve found that my most significant sensory challenge is sound.
Mainly because it’s the one thing I can’t always control or escape.

I can manage the other four senses more easily.
I wear sunglasses when even grey skies make my eyes feel like they’re burning. I can avoid foods that trigger me (unless by accident). If a piece of clothing bothers me, I can change it or take it off if needed. For smell, I can cover my face and leave the situation. These are all things that feel more socially acceptable to manage or avoid.

Sound is different. It’s my biggest day-to-day struggle, but also something I can sometimes find peace in especially when combined with movement. I believe sound was also the catalyst for an autistic meltdown I had during the attempt.

You might say sound can be controlled just like other senses. But I don’t find that to be true. One issue is that I have small ears – like, legit – so earplugs (even kids’ ones) don’t fit properly. Every time I try to wear them, I end up in distress because I can never get them to sit right. That discomfort just creates more problems.

One major contributor to my overwhelm was the weather. I usually cope well with the elements, unless it’s too hot. I live in Scotland, so I’m used to running in all kinds of weather. But during this challenge, the sensory impact became too much. I faced torrential rain and gale-force winds on and off for two days.

I tried to manage the noise by wearing my AirPods, a headband over my ears, a baseball cap, and my hood up. The headband helped dampen sound along with the AirPods, but that created new sensory issues; like the AirPods not sitting right under the headband. I had already switched from my usual headphones because they don’t fit under a headband at all, so nothing felt quite right.

Add a cap (which I usually wear to keep my hair in place), and then the hood. Everything was wet, and inside the hood, I could constantly hear my hair and the hood rustling and moving.

Then came the relentless volume of the wind. It was so loud that I found myself yelling when I got into the van, simply because I’d been exposed to so much noise. Add to that the rain hammering on the hood, road, trees, and cars, and that was just the weather.
There were also cars, random radios, and the increased sensitivity to people’s voices after being alone most of the day. It was a lot.

On day 2, the rain was on and off, which I found the hardest. It would shift from calm and peaceful to another downpour. I remember feeling on the verge of a panic attack because I couldn’t cope with the inescapable noise of the rain combined with the cars. One or the other was manageable. Together, it was too much. I went into the van gasping for air and spent 5–10 minutes just trying to breathe. That helped me regulate enough to continue.

By day 3, things worsened. I was in pain and struggling to manage the sensory overload. I had a panic attack for multiple reasons but calmed down in the van and went back out.
As soon as I left the van, though, the cars zooming past became overwhelming again. The high verge on one side amplified the sound. Knowing someone was behind me on a bike to protect me was a blessing, but also a curse. It slowed traffic, but it also added to my overstimulation. I couldn’t communicate that at the time.

I could feel myself stimming, struggling to regulate my nervous system. My threat response was fully activated, and I couldn’t settle it while still exposed to traffic. Every car felt like it grazed my shoulder and shouted in my ear. The verge echoed and trapped the sound. I couldn’t shift focus. My body temperature rose, and I felt the urge to bang my head against something, not in a self-harm way, but in a grounding, calming way.

Externally, nothing had changed from the previous days; in fact, the conditions were better. But it was still too much.
I had to get off the road. I felt the stress and anxiety coming from some of my crew. I understood it, but it made me try even harder to hide what I was experiencing. Still, there was no hiding or suppressing what was happening. I tried desperately to contain the meltdown, because I didn’t want anyone to see me that way. Deep down, I also knew that the energy cost of a full-blown meltdown would take me further away from finishing. Looking back, I wish I’d allowed myself to just be.

My crew held me tightly to help ground me and regulate my nervous system. Between stimming and using my grounding tools, I calmed down (remarkably quickly for me), but that in itself was exhausting. Letting myself unmask and release what I’d been holding in for so long was both necessary and draining. I ended up taking two hours in the van to rest and sleep. Initially, I didn’t want to stop because I could still hear the traffic outside, which was distressing – but somehow, I managed to get going again. I still don’t know how.

The final breaking point came at the end. It was the combination of physical pain and people talking. I described it afterwards like this: I had 1% battery left and was trying so hard to get back to 2%, but when someone spoke to me, it felt like they were yelling – even though it was probably me yelling, as I was in a trauma response (that part of the story will remain private between me and my crew). It felt physically painful – not as in being hurt, but like a sensory pain.

People were trying to help. asking if I was okay, if I needed anything, if I wanted a hug. But each question drained my energy back to 0%. In those moments, I need space. A lot of people don’t, but I just can’t take in any more stimuli. I’m the person that when they say they don’t want a fuss, they really don’t want a fuss.

That’s how it ended: a meltdown and a stress fracture in my shin (which I hadn’t mentioned or even fully realised the severity of). I went into the van, and thankfully, my crew gave me the space I needed to fully meltdown.

Later, when I was alone in the hotel, I shut down completely. I couldn’t speak a single word. I needed that time to be silent, to hear nothing, to sit in darkness. To recharge enough just to face the journey home. I wish I could have been the person who joined the team for dinner after a shower and some rest, but I couldn’t.

I learned a lot on this journey, and I hope that by sharing it, I can help others understand how difficult these things can be for autistic individuals. But I also won’t let this experience stop me from trying again. I’ve learned more about myself, and I hope to help others who struggle too.

That hope comes from two places:
The part of me that wants others to understand, to listen, to see that neurodivergence is just that: different. It might make you uncomfortable, but imagine living in a world that constantly makes you uncomfortable.
And the part of me that wants others like me to feel less alone. Less “odd.” To know that we can adapt and create a world that fits our needs; a world that is supportive, inclusive, and safe.

Hi I am Sara Eydmann. An AuDHDer with a passion for ultra-marathon running. I am (nearly) a qualified counsellor working with a diverse range of individuals whilst also working as an online fitness coach and spin instructor! My favourite way to spend a day is in the hills, running free and I hope to help others find their freedom in whatever way that might be.