The Unbearable Anxiety of Grocery Shopping

The problem wasn’t that I was lazy or easily stressed out. It was that grocery shopping is often inaccessible to neurodivergent people.

This is Minced Words, a column by Gabrielle Drolet on bringing the conversation about accessibility into the kitchen.

In mid-May, with spring just starting to fade into summer, I went to the farmers market with two friends to shop for dinner. The weather was getting hotter, the air thick and humid, and the produce on the stands was shifting alongside the seasons; tomatoes, asparagus, and baskets of fat strawberries all caught my attention.

Walking through rows of herbs, fruits, and vegetables, I finally spotted an ingredient I didn’t even realize I’d been wanting: fiddleheads, bright green and tightly coiled. It’s a vegetable I love and look forward to every year during the short window when it’s in season.

I bought two baskets’ worth—a splurge, but one I knew would be worth it.

“What are you going to do with them?” my friend asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” I said. Without a grocery list or a recipe in mind, I thought about what was already in my kitchen that might pair well with the fiddleheads. Instead of feeling anxious as I might once have, I felt excited about the different possible combinations. “I’ll figure it out when I get home.”

*

Some of my earliest memories involve sitting in a shopping cart, peering out at brightly lit aisles while my mom crossed items off her grocery list. Back then, grocery shopping was a coveted activity. I loved sitting in that cart, taking in the world that rolled past me: the cold air from the freezers, the glow of fluorescent lights overhead, the colorful rows of fruit and vegetables in the produce section.

But when I aged out of the cart and had to walk alongside it, the experience suddenly changed. Not only did I dislike it; I wanted nothing to do with it. In the cart, I could observe the grocery store from a safe distance, like looking at passing scenery through a car window. Now, it felt like I’d been dropped into the middle of the highway.

I grew weary and overstimulated. I wanted to go home.

On little legs, I struggled to keep up with my mom as we weaved through the aisles, navigating what felt like a maze. The fluorescent lights grew harsh; the mingled sounds of squeaky cart wheels, Top 40 music, and overlapping voices made me wince; the bright, endless rows of food exhausted me. I became aware of just how many other families and shoppers were around us in a way I never had been, obstacles we had to maneuver around. I grew weary and overstimulated. I wanted to go home.

I assumed this was the sort of thing that I’d outgrow with time. That grocery shopping, like making the bed or tidying up, was an activity that children were forced into but that adults grew to love.

*

At nineteen, I moved out of my university’s dorms and into a house with a few roommates. For the first time, I had to start stocking my own fridge and pantry, meaning grocery shopping was now unavoidable. Though I’d recently discovered a love of cooking, grocery shopping remained a hurdle.

The first time I went grocery shopping alone, I was overwhelmed by just how much I had to buy. I’d shown up prepared with a short list, but it spun out of control as I walked up and down the aisles, each one prompting new considerations. I guess I need spices. Why are spices so expensive? Do I need rice? Why are there eighteen different kinds? What condiments should I have? As I spiraled over what I did and didn’t need, struggling to piece together a meal plan, I also faced the same issues I had as a child: The store was still as loud, bright, and hectic as ever.

I left with armfuls of bags, a dent in my wallet, and a newfound dread of doing the groceries. I got home to a kitchen at once overstuffed and lacking: full of fresh ingredients I couldn’t get through before they spoiled and missing essentials I’d forgotten to buy.

Part of the problem was I didn’t know how to plan meals or write a good grocery list. Figuring out how to feed myself for several weeks was an overwhelming task in and of itself. But being at the store was the worst part. If I shopped for too long, I felt so anxious and frustrated that I wanted to cry. Beyond struggling with what to buy, I had a hard time dealing with the constant influx of sights and sounds around me: a voice over the PA system, bright signs advertising deals, streams of carts going in different directions.

I now understand that these feelings were largely shaped by my then-undiagnosed neurodivergence. Much of what I’d thought were personality quirks or personal failings—a dislike of busy places, struggles with planning, overwhelm from “easy” tasks, overstimulation—were actually symptoms of a larger issue. The problem wasn’t that I was lazy or easily stressed out. It was that grocery shopping is often inaccessible to neurodivergent people. It’s a task that involves the challenges of planning, travel, and sensory overload. Though I was vaguely aware of accessible alternatives designed for those with sensory issues—things like quiet hours offered at some supermarkets, including a few Canadian ones—I never thought to seek them out for myself.

No matter how much grocery shopping wore on me, I didn’t consider that I was the kind of person who might have an accessibility need. So I put my head down and kept going to the supermarket. If it didn’t get easier, I’d just have to get over myself.

*

I eventually started living with a partner, which made things easier. She took over the task of shopping, writing out lists, and planning meals for us, with occasional input from me. On the rare occasions where I did the shopping in her place, she still minimized my stress as much as possible, writing out lists and telling me exactly what to buy.

No matter how much grocery shopping wore on me, I didn’t consider that I might have an accessibility need.

Not long after, I developed a nerve condition that would become chronic and disabling. As I struggled with pain and numbness throughout my upper body, every part of cooking became physically difficult and painful—including grocery shopping.

At the height of my symptoms, my fingers would swell, tingle, and ache if they were wrapped around the handle of a grocery cart for too long. Pain shot down my forearms if I tried to lift anything remotely heavy from the shelves or carry grocery bags into my apartment.

Six months later, my partner and I broke up. I moved into my own apartment in a body that constantly hurt. I no longer had access to a car, but my new apartment was just a five-minute walk away from the supermarket. In the beginning, I’d walk over, buy whatever I needed for the week, and lug it all home in a few bags. The effect this had on my physical health was sharp and immediate. The walk back to my apartment was unbearable. By the time I got home, I was often too sore and numb to cook at all.

What followed was a long trial-and-error process. I tried ordering groceries in, which was the disability-friendly option most people recommended. While convenient, it was also expensive, and I missed picking out fresh produce. I tried omitting heavy items like canned goods from my grocery lists. Eventually, I bought a personal grocery cart. The handle still made my fingers swell and ache, but the pain paled in comparison to what I’d felt before.

I’ve now settled into a routine that works: making tiny trips to the store several times a week, only buying necessary ingredients each time. Though near-daily grocery trips might sound tedious, to me they’re both manageable and enjoyable—a word I never thought I’d apply to grocery shopping. While it might seem like a relatively small adjustment, my new way of shopping has stripped away the things I used to find hardest about the errand. It has also pushed me to reevaluate my relationship with both cooking and disability.

My tiny grocery store trips inspire me to make meals based on whatever is available to me in the moment. This means I’m approaching cooking based on ingredients rather than on recipes—I pick my main produce first, and meals follow. Pairing whatever I buy with what’s already in my pantry has pushed me to be a better and more inventive cook

It’s worth noting, of course, that what’s worked for me isn’t an option for everyone. I’m lucky to live in a place with a multitude of nearby, affordable options, and I’m glad that I finally get to enjoy them. At the same time, I’m disappointed about the years I spent refusing to consider alternatives.

The shock of realizing I liked grocery shopping was followed by a single thought: I could have tried this sooner. When the task continued to cause me anxiety and stress well into adulthood, I should’ve considered ways to make the errand more tolerable. I thought of it as a personal failing rather than what it was: an accessibility need. When popular and public discourse address accessibility needs, they tend to consider physical disability ahead of other kinds. In my experience, this isn’t a problem within disability circles or communities but is a glaring issue outside of them. People often seem uncomfortable with the idea that those who aren’t physically or visibly disabled—say, those who are mentally ill or neurodivergent—are, in fact, disabled. In turn, they also fail to consider that these people have accessibility needs.

I’d been fed this kind of thinking for most of my life. Before I became physically disabled, I’m not sure I considered myself disabled at all. I certainly didn’t consider myself disabled enough to tend to my accessibility needs, no matter how much ignoring them wore me down.

As we start talking more openly about disability and cooking, it’s important to consider the less visible accessibility needs, which are often forgotten. It’s already hard enough to find the tools you need if you haven’t considered them as options. It’s even worse if you’ve been conditioned to believe you’re not disabled enough to use them.

*

As I walked home from the farmers market with fiddleheads heavy at the bottom of my tote bag, I considered my options for dinner. I could fry them with lemon butter and serve them as a side dish. I could mix them into risotto. I could stop at the grocery store and see what else they might go with.

This sense of curiosity and openness I feel toward cooking is still new to me. Each trip to the store feels like an opportunity—to become a better cook, to try something new, to be curious about an ingredient’s potential.

At home, I dropped the fiddleheads into a pot of boiling water and waited for them to become safe to eat. And as the water rolled, steam drifting upward, I eagerly opened my pantry to choose a few ingredients.