My memory of the day in 2017 when Australia voted ‘Yes’ for marriage equality is bittersweet. This is not just because of the nasty public campaign that preceded it, but because I felt like I was locked out of the shared celebration of pride.

For me, belonging to the queer community has always seemed inseparable from large public demonstrations of it. Each year, the approach of Mardi Gras fills me with dread rather than joy due to the feelings of exclusion that it triggers.

Despite spending most of my adult life in Sydney, I have struggled to find a way into the social life of the queer community. I have a scattering of queer friends and a deep commitment to queer recognition and advocacy, but I still feel on the outer.

As someone who is Autistic and has ADHD and anxiety, inaccessible social environments are a significant barrier to finding belonging in the queer community. It’s a perplexing situation given that those with sexual and gender identities outside the cis-hetero binary are up to six times more likely to be Autistic.

When you’re vulnerable to isolation because of a fundamentally different experience of the world, finding a sanctuary of acceptance and belonging is even more vital.

Opportunities for queer people to connect as a community tend to be limited to a handful of venues and centred around party culture and noisy, crowded environments.

I’ve often found myself caught in a feedback loop, where my struggle with these environments has prevented me from building the social infrastructure that would support me to participate in them. Not only was there nowhere I could just go and hang out, but I had no one to hang out with.

Many times, I’ve immersed myself in environments that felt profoundly uncomfortable because it seemed like the price of admission to the queer community.  But each time, the message seemed the same: You don’t fit in here because you are the wrong kind of person.

There was a familiar trajectory when I attended these events: the anticipatory anxiety of going to an unfamiliar venue with no idea who would be there; the confusion of where to go and what to do; and the peculiar terror of time stretching into infinity with no idea of how to be.

Layers of background noise and dance beats would ricochet off every surface as I leaned forward to attempt a conversation consisting of lipreading and nods. Tight spaces were filled with heaving crowds, closing in on me until I either zoned out or headed for the nearest exit.

Each neurodivergent person has their own unique story. Mine is shaped by Autism, ADHD, my personal attributes and life experiences, plus layers of baked-on rejection and shame. My neurodivergence is not static, but shifts according to countless internal and external variables. If I’m feeling okay and the environment is right, I can be cracking good company.

I acknowledge that for some, operating in a neurotypical world is harder due to co-occurring conditions and other marginalised identities, and that I have advantages in the resources available to me.

Understanding my neurodivergence has enabled me to reframe my experience of queer social environments. I wasn’t socially inept; my brain’s inability to process the sensory and cognitive onslaught left me overwhelmed and my nervous system under siege.

I stopped internalising the problem and shifted the focus to where it belonged: the failure of these environments to meet the needs of neurodivergent people.

Most of us want connection, but the options for finding it can be limited. A sense of belonging shouldn’t depend on someone’s ability to perform in and withstand crowded, noisy and busy environments.

I’m disappointed that accessibility for neurodivergent people is no better understood within the queer community than it is more broadly. Event organisers and venues tend to assume everyone has the same capacity to cope with the environment, and that social interaction will organically take care of itself.

But venues need to accommodate a range of needs so that the onus isn’t always on individuals. Accessibility includes measures like ensuring there are quiet spaces, making clear and detailed venue/event information available on site and ahead of time, and having designated people in attendance to welcome, guide and facilitate.

Even events on a smaller scale, like Meetup groups, aren’t accessible if organisers don’t consider the needs of neurodivergent people. They can also subtly exclude people by preferencing certain behavioural norms and communication styles. If I can’t be myself, I end up masking and having superficial interactions that are not only exhausting, but don’t lead to genuine connection.

In mainstream society, there’s an unconscious bias towards neuronormative ways of being, which reinforces exclusion and ableism. Neurodivergent people experience constant pressure to adapt to environments not suited to us, which has significant implications for our mental health and quality of life.

An expansive understanding of queer identity invites us to challenge dominant social norms and legitimise alternative ways of being. Embracing neurodivergent people should be a natural fit with the values of the queer community.

We need social environments that are conducive to other ways of being: where there’s room for quiet contemplation and connection based on sharing ideas and interests.

One venue has risen to the challenge. Beans Bar, which opened in Melbourne in May 2023, is the city’s first “dedicated lesbian, trans, non-binary and neurodivergent friendly bar”. Beans was originally envisaged as a lesbian bar, but its founders recognised a broader need for a venue that embraced differences in the way people think, feel, act and experience things.

Beans Bar provides insight into what a neuro-inclusive queer space can look like. Regular events are categorised according to a sensory scale: the prospect of “Sensory Sundays”, specifically catering to those with noise sensitivity, is music to my ears.

I’m also heartened by the emergence of locally-based groups like the Quiet Queers in Sydney.  The group organises regular social events that use interests and activities as a point of connection. It feels like a decentring of hospitality spaces, while opening up options to meet a more diverse range of needs.

For me, a neuro-inclusive queer space is one where I can relax and enjoy the moment, rather than enduring discomfort while plotting my escape.

I see layouts that are easy to navigate and seating areas that don’t make me feel hemmed in, small tables for one conversation at a time and alternative spaces to move if I need a break. The physical environment is not the sparkly main character, but it plays a supporting role by providing optimum conditions for low-stress social interaction.

I want to be able to wander into a queer venue confident that I will feel welcome and free to engage in the amount of social interaction I need. For big community events, I want to know what to expect ahead of time and not be left to my own devices when I get there. Just as important as a sensory-friendly environment is the promotion of a warm and inclusive atmosphere.

With more inclusive queer spaces, I could feel that I was being invited to be part of something, rather than locked out of it. When we feel comfortable to be our authentic selves, neurodivergent queer people can find a genuine sense of community and belonging.