Why I Won't Enter a Supermarket at Busy Times (Unless I'm With Someone Safe)

It's not about the shopping. It's about the noise, the lights, the bodies, and the absolute certainty that I will not cope alone.

I don't do busy supermarkets. Not alone. Not anymore.

If it's a Saturday morning, or a weekday lunchtime, or any of the other peak times when the aisles are full of bodies and trolleys and children and noise, I won't go in. I'll sit in the car if I'm with someone. I'll turn around and go home if I'm not. I'll wait until the evening, when the lights feel less aggressive and the crowds have thinned. I'll plan my whole day around avoiding the crush.

Unless I'm with someone safe. Usually Euan. Sometimes Leah.

And that makes all the difference.

The Difference Between Alone and Accompanied

When I'm alone in a busy supermarket, I'm not really alone. I'm with my anxiety. I'm with the voice in my head that's scanning every aisle for threats before I've even picked up a basket. I'm with the hypervigilance that tracks every person who walks too close, every child who shrieks, every fluorescent light that flickers imperceptibly but is absolutely perceptible to my nervous system.

I'm performing. Even though no one is watching. I'm performing "normal." I'm trying to walk at the right pace, look at the right things, not seem lost or confused or like I'm about to bolt for the exit. The performance takes energy I don't have. By the time I reach the checkout—self-service, obviously—I'm running on empty. By the time I get home, I'm done. The rest of the day is a write-off.

When I'm with Euan or Leah, something shifts. I'm not performing. I'm just... there. With someone who knows me. Someone who doesn't need me to be fine. Someone who won't judge me if I need to leave early, or skip an aisle, or stand in a quiet corner for a moment while they grab the milk.

They are my buffer. My shield. My safe person.

What a Safe Person Does

A safe person doesn't need to do anything dramatic. They don't need to hold my hand or talk me down from a panic attack or navigate the whole shop for me. They just need to be there. Beside me. Calm. Present. Unbothered by the chaos that is slowly unravelling my nervous system.

Euan is brilliant at this. He'll walk slightly ahead or slightly behind, giving me space but never leaving me alone. He'll make a joke about something ridiculous—the price of butter, the font on a sign, the man arguing with the self-service machine—and the laughter cuts through the noise. He doesn't rush me. He doesn't ask if I'm okay every five minutes. He just... exists. Calmly. Steadily. Safely.

Leah does it differently but just as well. She'll link her arm through mine. She'll talk about Archie, or what we're having for dinner, or something she saw on TikTok. She'll fill the space with warmth and familiarity, so the supermarket feels less like an assault course and more like a slightly tedious errand we're doing together. She makes it ordinary. And ordinary is what I need.

The Sensory Reality of a Busy Supermarket

Let me describe what a busy supermarket actually feels like to a sensitive nervous system. The lights are too bright. They're not just bright—they're humming. A frequency that most people don't notice but my brain tracks like a threat. The floor is too shiny. It reflects the lights back up at me. The aisles are too narrow. People brush past me with their trolleys and their bags and their bodies. Every accidental touch sends a jolt through my system.

The noise is everywhere. Music playing over the speakers. Announcements about special offers. Children crying. Trolleys clattering. The beeping of checkouts. A phone ringing somewhere. Someone laughing too loudly. My brain, which already struggles to filter out irrelevant stimuli, is trying to process all of it at once. It can't. It short-circuits. I shut down or I panic. Sometimes both.

And then there's the social element. The unexpected interactions. The person who asks me to reach something from a high shelf. The friend-of-a-friend who stops to chat. The cashier who wants to know how my day is going. Every single one of these is a demand. A performance. A tiny piece of my already-depleted energy that I have to give away.

When I'm with Euan or Leah, I don't have to give anything away. They field the interactions. They reach the high shelf. They answer the questions. I just stand there. Quiet. Safe. Anonymous.

The Aftermath (When I Get It Wrong)

Sometimes I get it wrong. I think I can manage. I go to the supermarket at a busy time, alone, because I need something urgently or because I've underestimated how crowded it will be. And I crash.

I abandon my basket in an aisle. I walk out without buying anything. I sit on a bench outside and shake until my heart rate comes down. I go home and lie under my weighted blanket for an hour. I cancel the rest of my plans. The whole day is lost to recovery.

These moments used to fill me with shame. I'd berate myself for not being able to do something as simple as buying groceries. I'd compare myself to everyone else in the shop, calmly selecting their vegetables, apparently unbothered by the chaos. What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I just be normal?

Now I know. My brain is wired differently. I'm not weak. I'm not failing. I have a sensitive nervous system and a limited capacity for sensory input. Knowing that doesn't stop the overwhelm, but it stops the shame. And that's worth something.

A Love Letter to My Safe People

Euan. Leah. If you're reading this: thank you. Thank you for being my buffer. My shield. My safe place in the cereal aisle. Thank you for not making a big deal of it. For not drawing attention to the fact that Mum can't handle a busy supermarket on her own. For just being there, calm and steady and completely unfazed.

You might not even realise how much it means. How much energy you save me. How many panic attacks you've prevented just by standing next to me with a shopping list and a dry sense of humour. You are my accommodation in a world that isn't built for my brain. And I love you for it.

If You Need a Safe Person Too

If reading this feels familiar—if you have a supermarket, a social situation, a place that feels impossible alone but manageable with someone safe beside you—I see you. You're not weak. You're not broken. You're just wired differently. And needing a safe person isn't a failure. It's an accommodation. It's knowing yourself well enough to say, "This is hard for me. I need help." That's not a flaw. That's wisdom.

Find your Euan. Find your Leah. The person who walks beside you without making it weird. The person who fills the space with warmth and leaves the judgement at home.

And if you don't have one yet, keep looking. They're out there. In the meantime, the self-service checkout is your friend. The quiet hours are your friend. The bench outside the supermarket is your friend. And so am I.

Anxiously Ever After is written by me, Jennie, a 50-something-year-old woman with lifelong anxiety, diagnosed GAD, and a nervous system that cannot handle a busy supermarket without backup. I am eternally grateful for Euan and Leah, who make the impossible possible. I write from a rented room in a shared house, door locked, recovering from the weekly shop.