I Had a Meltdown in the Mountains: What Camping Taught Me About Autism and Self-Acceptance

A woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat sits next to a campfire, surrounded by large rocks and trees in a forested area.

Could Portland Be Home?

Last week, I flew to Portland to celebrate one of my best friend’s birthdays. I’m no stranger to Portland. Most of my closest friends live there, and over time, it has become a second home to me. Every time I visit, I find myself daydreaming of what it would be like to live there.

Sometimes, it’s a resounding yes. I love the lush greenery, the cozy coffee shops, and the numerous outdoor bars and restaurants. But to me, nothing compares to Los Angeles—my home. The thought of uprooting my life feels too overwhelming to me.

As a neurodivergent woman, I crave consistency and familiarity. But the thing is, whenever I leave Portland, I feel both comforted and challenged in ways I can’t quite put into words.

Let The Camping Begin

This trip included something that I haven’t quite mastered, camping. We went to a gorgeous area near Mount Hood. It was just for one night, with the possibility of staying two. It always sounds so intriguing to me. I love the outdoors and being in nature, but I’m also weary of bugs, weather, and of course, sleeping outside in a tent. But I had agreed to it because it is what my best friend wanted for her birthday—a cowboy-themed camping trip.

I was incredibly nervous because I haven’t been known to be the best camper, especially given past meltdowns. But this time felt different. I thought that maybe I could make it through with zero complaints. I wanted to show up and be easygoing, and fun. The kind of person who can sleep in a tent, laugh around the fire, and wake up to the sound of the river with gratitude—not dread. I packed a smile and genuinely hoped for the best.

And honestly? The day was amazing. We explored the terrain, played some outdoor games, did a little cowboy-themed photoshoot, and cooked steaks over the fire. It was everything I wanted it to be—until it came time to sleep.

That’s when it all changed.

The Meltdown That Caused a Scene

The night was rough. It was absolutely freezing. Bugs were everywhere. No bathrooms. No cell service. And no way to distract myself when my nervous system began to spiral. I slept like a hot dog—curled tightly, jaw and shoulders clenched. I was stuck in my body. By morning, I was overwhelmed in every way—mentally, physically, emotionally. And because I didn’t have the tools or space to regulate, I snapped.

I had a full-blown autistic meltdown.

While my friends slept peacefully nearby, I sat alone, overstimulated and panicking. My mind raced. My body couldn’t settle. I felt trapped, stuck, with no outlet to recenter myself. In a fit of rage, I woke up my friends in a chaotic, desperate state.

I ripped open the tent zipper from bottom to top, stomped my feet, grabbed my bag, and screamed about how miserable I was. I cried uncontrollably. I started hitting myself to get that awful, spinning feeling out of my body. In that moment, I wasn’t in control. My nervous system had taken over, and I was in survival mode.

And afterward? The shame hit hard. It always does.

The Shame and the Guilt

All day, I kept replaying it—my behavior, the look on my friends’ faces, the rawness of it all. Why can’t I be normal about this? I thought. Why does this always happen? Why am I like this?

All I’ve ever wanted is to be included. To say yes to things and mean it. To participate in the group memories without feeling like the liability. But the truth is, this wasn’t the first time I’ve had a meltdown while camping. I thought maybe this time would be different. Maybe I could push through. Wear the mask a little longer. Pretend I was fine.

But masking only gets you so far—especially when you’re cold, sleep-deprived, and in need of using an actual bathroom.

Something I Learned

This experience reminded me of something important: autistic meltdowns are not tantrums. They are nervous system responses to intense overstimulation and overwhelm. They aren’t dramatic, or deliberate, or even something we choose. They happen when we’ve crossed the invisible threshold of what we can handle—and our bodies respond in the only way they know how.

The hardest part? I pushed myself because I didn’t want to be that friend. The one who needs accommodations. The one who “can’t hang.” But in trying to be someone I’m not, I hurt myself—and scared the people around me.

I’m still processing what happened. I’m still holding the weight of it. But here’s what I know: I can love my friends. I can love nature. And I can still say no to situations that harm my mental health. Inclusion should never come at the cost of regulation and peace.

Surround Yourself with Supportive Friends

I’m sharing this not because it’s easy, but because I know I’m not alone. If you’ve ever masked so hard you broke, if you’ve ever melted down and then beat yourself up for it, if you’ve ever said yes when your body screamed no—this post is for you.

Next time, I’ll bring a weighted blanket. Actually, my friend had a wearable sleeping bag that looked amazing. He offered it to me, but I didn’t want to take away his comfort. Looking back, I should have accepted the support.

My friends generally do understand me. I’ve gotten better at explaining how I respond to certain environments, and I’m lucky—they didn’t let this ruin their day. For that, I’m forever grateful.

Surround yourself with people who see you. Who hold space for your messy moments. Who stay, even when the woods get too loud.

Neurodivergent bodies speak loudly when ignored. May we all learn to listen before they have to scream.