Holidays: why they feel harder than staying at home (and what actually helps)

There’s a narrative that holidays are meant to be the “easy bit.” The break. The recharge. The part where everything slows down and family life suddenly becomes soft-edged and sunlit.

For my family, that has rarely been the reality. More often, holidays are harder than staying at home. Not in a dramatic, Instagram-unfriendly way. Just in a layered, cumulative, constantly-adjusting kind of way that takes more energy than people expect.

Change is difficult. Even “nice” change. New environments, new beds, new sounds, new routines, new layouts of space and time. What looks like freedom on paper often feels like cognitive overload in practice. For neurodivergent kids (and honestly, neurodivergent adults too), there is no “holiday mode switch” that suddenly makes flexibility easy.

Then there’s the weather. Hot weather sounds like a bonus until it becomes another sensory demand. Too bright, too warm, too sticky, too much clothing or not enough structure to the day. Everyone slightly unravelled in different directions at the same time.

Crowds don’t help either. Places that are designed to be enjoyable become unpredictable obstacle courses of noise, queues, waiting, bumping, rushing, and overstimulation.

And underneath all of that is the real work most parents are doing quietly: managing multiple neurodivergent needs at once. Different thresholds. Different triggers. Different recovery times. Different needs for control, space, reassurance, food, movement, quiet, connection. It’s like running several nervous systems on different operating systems in the same small space.

Last summer, my eldest refused to go on holiday at all. That wasn’t a “behaviour” problem. It was a capacity decision. A nervous system saying: I can’t add this on top of everything else. And once you understand it like that, it changes how you see the whole idea of “family holiday success.”

So what actually helps? One of the biggest shifts for us has been letting go of the idea that holidays have to look different every time.

Going to the same place repeatedly has been unexpectedly powerful. Familiarity reduces load. The more predictable the environment, the less energy is spent decoding it. It becomes less about “new experience!” and more about “we know how this works.” That shift alone can make the difference between meltdown and manageable.

Timing matters more than people realise too. Out-of-season travel, or at least avoiding peak school holidays where possible, changes everything. Not just price, but pace. Fewer people, less pressure, more space to exist without constant negotiation with the environment.

There’s also something important in the legal and practical reality of school attendance that families don’t always feel empowered to use: schools can authorise absence for exceptional circumstances. Holidays don’t automatically have to be unauthorised if there is a genuine wellbeing need, and it is always worth having that conversation early, clearly, and in writing. Not as a confrontation, but as collaboration around a child’s capacity and family functioning. For neurodivergent children in particular, predictability of breaks that work for them can be protective rather than disruptive.

Accommodation choice also matters more than I ever used to think it would. Hotels often sound convenient, but they can amplify overload: shared corridors, breakfast rooms, noise at all hours, lack of control over space.

An Airbnb or similar self-contained space can be the difference between coping and not coping. Having a “home-from-home” means there is somewhere to decompress that isn’t constantly socially or sensory loaded. A kitchen. A door you can close. A space that belongs to you for the week, even if everything else feels unfamiliar.

Airports and travel hubs are their own category of challenge. The Hidden Disabilities Sunflower lanyard scheme, run by Hidden Disabilities Sunflower, has genuinely made a difference for us. Not magically easier, not stress-free—but more understood. More pauses offered. More staff awareness. More permission to take things at a different pace without having to explain everything repeatedly in moments when you don’t have the words for it.

And then there’s the invisible tension that sits underneath all of this: cost versus reward. Because holidays are expensive. Financially, emotionally, and in preparation load. And when things go well, they can feel absolutely worth it. But when they don’t, the question lingers afterwards: was that worth the energy it took to get there?

For me, the most honest version of planning now includes that question upfront. Not as pessimism, but as realism. What is the likely return on emotional and sensory investment? What level of disruption can we actually absorb right now? What needs to be in place for this to be survivable, not just aspirational?

And then there’s the parental organiser role. The invisible job that doesn’t stop just because you’re not at home. Packing, planning, anticipating, problem-solving, regulating everyone else’s regulation, carrying the “what ifs,” managing the expectations of others while quietly tracking the capacity of your own family system in real time.

That role doesn’t go on holiday.

So when I think about what actually makes holidays possible for families like ours, it isn’t about perfection or escape. It’s about reducing unknowns. Increasing familiarity. Building in recovery space. Choosing environments that flex with us instead of forcing us to flex constantly.

And redefining success.

Sometimes success is a magical week of memories.

Sometimes it’s just getting through without anyone hitting burnout.

Both count.