Why I Arrive Late to Events: A Personal Reflection

I was recently asked why I tend to arrive late to in-person events. The individual who posed the question habitually arrives 15 to 30 minutes early. I will readily concede that arriving early is preferable to my own pattern of being five to fifteen minutes late, depending on the significance of the occasion. If the gravity of an event compels me, I am able to transcend my considerable anxiety and arrive ahead of time. This conversation prompted a deep reflection on the origins of this habit. As is often the case, coping mechanisms that outlive their purpose in adulthood generally have roots in childhood experiences. I have previously noted that my childhood home served as the primary venue for nearly every celebration on my mother’s side, gatherings that frequently included my father, mother, and sister. They were among the more reserved attendees. While I did not object to anyone’s company, the overwhelming number of guests would always leave an impression. I would sit on the stairs or peer over the banister, gazing out at the street as cars filled our driveway and lined the curb. I would routinely ask my mother when she had told the guests to arrive, as that announcement signaled the end of tranquility. Each arrival provoked a surge of anxiety—a sudden, electric jolt—soon replaced by irritation and frustration.

These childhood experiences set the stage for how I began to view early arrivals. Those who arrived early didn’t merely unsettle me; they magnified my anxiety in a way no other guest could. Instead of bracing for the inevitable four-to-five-hour ritual to reclaim my home, I found the ordeal could begin 30 minutes earlier. When I’d inquire how long they’d stay, my mother’s reply was always a disinterested roll of the eyes: “I didn’t give them a time.” As someone who values clarity around beginnings and endings, these vague departures left me perpetually on edge. This became a familiar pattern at Father’s Day gatherings, Mother’s Day brunches, Thanksgivings, Christmases, and more. Given these recurring family dynamics, I quickly concluded it was better to arrive fashionably late, when guests were already immersed in appetizers and conversation. After all, arriving early risked becoming the host’s focal point—a spotlight far too intense for my autistic mind to process.

A similar process would follow when we would go to a family member’s house for a celebration. However, being away from home made it a bit easier, because I could look forward to eventually leaving. The problem, especially when I was a child, was that I couldn’t drive myself home. It always felt as though I was ready to leave half the time before everyone else. I had a hard time relating to my young cousins and often found myself sitting at the table while the adults tried to discuss topics not always appropriate for young ears. There were five of us in total: myself, my two siblings, and my two cousins. The older cousin and my younger sister would pair off and go play, and then my brother and the younger cousin would go play as well. It was never overtly exclusionary; I just didn’t understand how to join in. It goes back to that feeling of verbal and nonverbal social cues feeling like a foreign language to me at a young age. I would stand on what felt like the edge of joining in, but never quite know how to dip my toe in or feel like I knew what to do. The adults, like my aunt and my cousin’s mother, would say things like, “They want to play with you, just go upstairs.” I often wondered at a young age if adults created a reality they wanted to believe existed when it came to how children interacted. When I would go upstairs and approach one of the two established social groups, it either felt like a frosty reception or akward. I would wonder, “Did my aunt really know what she was talking about?” I know, as an adult, much of this was projection, but it didn’t make family social activities any more pleasant.

When I got access to my own car and a driver’s license as a young adult, the ability to flee undesirable social situations became exhilarating. This new freedom marked a turning point; even so, I have since learned that every time I feel discomfort, it’s not always a healthy response to leave. Learning to sit with discomfort is an ongoing battle and skill I continue to hone. My dad had always talked about being able to do whatever one wanted in adulthood. There seemed to be a mythical freedom that existed the minute someone turned 18. When I was able to drive away from family gatherings that spiked my social anxiety, I thought to myself, “ This must be the magic of being an adult”. It felt like magic.

This journey continued as I entered my professional life. I started to understand the importance of showing up early, or at least on time, when I graduated from college and began my career. When I did not show up on time, even for a volunteer position, it was pointed out how disrespectful it was, because it inconvenienced the person who was expecting me to arrive at a certain time. When it came to overcoming my social anxiety, I had to learn to practice socializing and that it was okay to arrive early. If I was going to be early to the point of being uncomfortable, it was okay to run errands in the area near the event beforehand. I now enjoy showing up to work, being the first person there, and relishing the peace and quiet before the day starts. If not the first person there, I’m often the second. I would have never thought, given my paralyzing anxiety of being early in childhood and college, that I would develop this habit in adulthood.

The one aspect I still struggle with when it comes to attending an event as an adult is overcoming the anxiety of going to one I know will be challenging sensory-wise. I was recently getting ready to attend a baseball game. I had been to a game with the same team at the same venue at the same time of year the year before. I had not brought the most appropriate hearing protection and hadn’t looked up the bag policy in advance. This time, I was prepared with better hearing protection and had a bag that complied with the policy. Despite intellectually knowing I was better prepared this time, all I could think about was the unpleasant sensory experiences I had the year prior: the booming voice of the announcer, sweat trickling down my neck despite the many fans in the stadium, and not knowing when to start or end a conversation with someone based on the background noise. Once I had arrived at the game, gone through security, found the group I was with, and started watching, I felt better. I know I enjoy and can attend a wide range of social activities and events. The hurdle I face every time is overcoming the anxiety of my body and brain reminding me of the pain I used to experience before my diagnosis and before I knew how to protect myself from that pain.

I don’t want to portray myself as an extrovert who never needs downtime. I often need a lot of downtime after exhausting social events. After the baseball game, I skipped church because I needed to be in a quiet, familiar environment. I have also found that getting enough sleep helps with needing slightly less alone time after socializing, but it doesn’t eliminate the need altogether. I often think the perception of someone with autism is that they either can’t go to something like a baseball game or that they won’t want to. Each person with autism is different in their likes and dislikes. Some might not need the recovery time that I do after loud excursions. What I want to emphasize is the importance of inviting someone with a disability to an event. Isolation is a particular problem for the disability community. Sometimes it’s assumed that the individual in question won’t enjoy the events or won’t be able to participate. I know there’s always the silent thought, no one says out loud, of not wanting to be inconvenienced. There are nuances to each situation. Someone in a wheelchair can probably attend a bowling party, and even if they can’t bowl, they might want to hang out and eat pizza. What I don’t think many people think through when they’re excluding someone with a disability is that they’re not affected by disability today.

They might have a disabled child, niece, nephew, or experience a disability themselves one day. How would they want to be treated, or how would they want their loved one treated? To reference nuance, I know that I would not enjoy a rock concert, so I will never attend one. I think the issue with not wanting someone with a disability to attend social events is often an issue with the disabled person, but an issue with the lack of support they have or how the people around them handle difficult and or complicated situations. If that is the case, then those are conversations to be had on a larger scale with those involved. From what I have seen and experienced, leaning towards inclusion tends to be the best move. It’s always okay to have open communication and boundaries, that’s preferred in my opinion. I would prefer to be invited, and I’m grateful that someone took me out to a ball game.