Autistic burnout and self-compassion during Autism Awareness Month
Autism awareness often overlooks Autistic adults and the realities of burnout. This reflection centers exhaustion, grief, and healing.
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Autism awareness often overlooks Autistic adults and the realities of burnout. This reflection centers exhaustion, grief, and healing.
This may sound strange to neurotypical readers or to those who consider themselves informed about autism, but many Autistic people find World Autism Awareness Month exhausting. These campaigns are often built around educating others while giving very little support or care to the people they claim to represent.
Year after year, the same misinformation resurfaces. Segments are framed for parents, written about Autistic children, and delivered by non-autistic professionals. Very rarely do these messages speak to Autistic adults. Last year, I avoided most coverage during April because even the well-meaning stories felt off. In one interview, I asked a psychologist how the pandemic was affecting Autistic adults. Her response was that we should consult our specialists, as if support were always accessible or even available at all.
This kind of “awareness” often reinforces the same barriers we are trying to dismantle.
This piece is written for other Autistic people. If non-autistic parents, professionals, or allies take something helpful from it, I’m glad. But my hope is that Autistic adults who read this feel a little less alone. That they find language or recognition for something they may have been going through silently.
The focus here is autistic burnout. It is not officially classified as a medical diagnosis, but it is well documented by Autistic advocates and researchers. Burnout often builds over time and is linked to masking, chronic sensory stress, and emotional overload. It is the result of surviving in environments that expect you to suppress your needs and hide your identity every single day.
Burnout often reshapes how we interact with the world. We turn toward familiar things that feel safe and manageable. We may stim more often, speak less, or only watch one show on repeat. I tend to rewatch specific JoJo episodes, seek out dark and scent-free spaces, and wear soft clothes that help me feel regulated.
Our executive functioning begins to fray. We forget appointments, delay basic tasks, or fall behind on things we normally care about. The mental effort it takes to function becomes impossible to sustain. And when being around people has been part of what caused the burnout, connecting with others might feel out of reach.
Support during this time can look small from the outside. But having even one person who understands how to offer care without adding pressure can help keep you afloat.
Burnout does not happen in a vacuum. It is often the result of months or years of cumulative stress, inaccessible environments, or relentless masking. When I look back, I wish I had recognized what was happening earlier. But at the time, there was no framework or support to help me understand what I was going through.
I experienced autistic burnout most clearly in August 2019. I had just left a job that drained me, let go of a PhD I had been encouraged not to pursue, and moved out of a sensory-hostile home. At the same time, I was at the lowest point in my eating disorder and had just ended a difficult experience with an inpatient program that refused to accommodate my Autistic needs.
When we talk about burnout, we also have to talk about the circumstances that made it so severe. The background noise of grief, the pressure to keep going, and the absence of rest all matter. These experiences leave marks, even when they are not visible.
During that time, even the things that usually brought me comfort stopped working. I could not relax. I could not think clearly. It felt like my brain had been replaced with fog. But because I was home with my mum, I did not have to perform. I could rest without explanation. We communicated in small sounds or stickers. I began to decompress, very slowly.
Eventually, I decided not to return to academia. I realized that advocacy felt more meaningful and sustainable. I took up life drawing again because it gave me sensory input that felt gentle. I started rebuilding my days around what I could actually do, not what I thought I should be able to handle.
When the pandemic began, I feared that the disruption would undo everything. But in reality, staying home gave me the extended sensory break I had needed all along. I was finally able to access remote services that respected my Autistic identity. I started therapy with a practitioner who understood me. I reconnected with friends in ways that felt low-pressure and safe. I played games like Animal Crossing with people I had never expected to bond with. I spoke with my best friend nearly every day, even across time zones.
I no longer feel burnt out in the way I once did, but I also know I will never move through the world the way neurotypical people do. That realization was hard. For a long time, I believed I had to meet neurotypical standards of energy and function in order to be taken seriously. Now I see how much that belief cost me.
Going forward, I plan for rest in a way I never did before. I need longer recovery time between tasks. I need to listen when my body and brain tell me they are overwhelmed. Recovery is not about returning to your old self. It is about building a life where your needs are valid and your energy matters.
You do not need to prove anything to deserve support. Burnout is not laziness. It is a response to stress that has gone unmet for too long. Even if it feels endless right now, this state is not permanent. You can find relief. You can rebuild. You are not the only one feeling this way.
If you take anything from this reflection, let it be this: you are not alone. Burnout can end. And there is no shame in needing to rest before you rise.
Autism awareness often overlooks Autistic adults and the realities of burnout. This reflection centers exhaustion, grief, and healing.
This may sound strange to neurotypical readers or to those who consider themselves informed about autism, but many Autistic people find World Autism Awareness Month exhausting. These campaigns are often built around educating others while giving very little support or care to the people they claim to represent.
Year after year, the same misinformation resurfaces. Segments are framed for parents, written about Autistic children, and delivered by non-autistic professionals. Very rarely do these messages speak to Autistic adults. Last year, I avoided most coverage during April because even the well-meaning stories felt off. In one interview, I asked a psychologist how the pandemic was affecting Autistic adults. Her response was that we should consult our specialists, as if support were always accessible or even available at all.
This kind of “awareness” often reinforces the same barriers we are trying to dismantle.
This piece is written for other Autistic people. If non-autistic parents, professionals, or allies take something helpful from it, I’m glad. But my hope is that Autistic adults who read this feel a little less alone. That they find language or recognition for something they may have been going through silently.
The focus here is autistic burnout. It is not officially classified as a medical diagnosis, but it is well documented by Autistic advocates and researchers. Burnout often builds over time and is linked to masking, chronic sensory stress, and emotional overload. It is the result of surviving in environments that expect you to suppress your needs and hide your identity every single day.
Burnout often reshapes how we interact with the world. We turn toward familiar things that feel safe and manageable. We may stim more often, speak less, or only watch one show on repeat. I tend to rewatch specific JoJo episodes, seek out dark and scent-free spaces, and wear soft clothes that help me feel regulated.
Our executive functioning begins to fray. We forget appointments, delay basic tasks, or fall behind on things we normally care about. The mental effort it takes to function becomes impossible to sustain. And when being around people has been part of what caused the burnout, connecting with others might feel out of reach.
Support during this time can look small from the outside. But having even one person who understands how to offer care without adding pressure can help keep you afloat.
Burnout does not happen in a vacuum. It is often the result of months or years of cumulative stress, inaccessible environments, or relentless masking. When I look back, I wish I had recognized what was happening earlier. But at the time, there was no framework or support to help me understand what I was going through.
I experienced autistic burnout most clearly in August 2019. I had just left a job that drained me, let go of a PhD I had been encouraged not to pursue, and moved out of a sensory-hostile home. At the same time, I was at the lowest point in my eating disorder and had just ended a difficult experience with an inpatient program that refused to accommodate my Autistic needs.
When we talk about burnout, we also have to talk about the circumstances that made it so severe. The background noise of grief, the pressure to keep going, and the absence of rest all matter. These experiences leave marks, even when they are not visible.
During that time, even the things that usually brought me comfort stopped working. I could not relax. I could not think clearly. It felt like my brain had been replaced with fog. But because I was home with my mum, I did not have to perform. I could rest without explanation. We communicated in small sounds or stickers. I began to decompress, very slowly.
Eventually, I decided not to return to academia. I realized that advocacy felt more meaningful and sustainable. I took up life drawing again because it gave me sensory input that felt gentle. I started rebuilding my days around what I could actually do, not what I thought I should be able to handle.
When the pandemic began, I feared that the disruption would undo everything. But in reality, staying home gave me the extended sensory break I had needed all along. I was finally able to access remote services that respected my Autistic identity. I started therapy with a practitioner who understood me. I reconnected with friends in ways that felt low-pressure and safe. I played games like Animal Crossing with people I had never expected to bond with. I spoke with my best friend nearly every day, even across time zones.
I no longer feel burnt out in the way I once did, but I also know I will never move through the world the way neurotypical people do. That realization was hard. For a long time, I believed I had to meet neurotypical standards of energy and function in order to be taken seriously. Now I see how much that belief cost me.
Going forward, I plan for rest in a way I never did before. I need longer recovery time between tasks. I need to listen when my body and brain tell me they are overwhelmed. Recovery is not about returning to your old self. It is about building a life where your needs are valid and your energy matters.
You do not need to prove anything to deserve support. Burnout is not laziness. It is a response to stress that has gone unmet for too long. Even if it feels endless right now, this state is not permanent. You can find relief. You can rebuild. You are not the only one feeling this way.
If you take anything from this reflection, let it be this: you are not alone. Burnout can end. And there is no shame in needing to rest before you rise.
Autism awareness often overlooks Autistic adults and the realities of burnout. This reflection centers exhaustion, grief, and healing.
This may sound strange to neurotypical readers or to those who consider themselves informed about autism, but many Autistic people find World Autism Awareness Month exhausting. These campaigns are often built around educating others while giving very little support or care to the people they claim to represent.
Year after year, the same misinformation resurfaces. Segments are framed for parents, written about Autistic children, and delivered by non-autistic professionals. Very rarely do these messages speak to Autistic adults. Last year, I avoided most coverage during April because even the well-meaning stories felt off. In one interview, I asked a psychologist how the pandemic was affecting Autistic adults. Her response was that we should consult our specialists, as if support were always accessible or even available at all.
This kind of “awareness” often reinforces the same barriers we are trying to dismantle.
This piece is written for other Autistic people. If non-autistic parents, professionals, or allies take something helpful from it, I’m glad. But my hope is that Autistic adults who read this feel a little less alone. That they find language or recognition for something they may have been going through silently.
The focus here is autistic burnout. It is not officially classified as a medical diagnosis, but it is well documented by Autistic advocates and researchers. Burnout often builds over time and is linked to masking, chronic sensory stress, and emotional overload. It is the result of surviving in environments that expect you to suppress your needs and hide your identity every single day.
Burnout often reshapes how we interact with the world. We turn toward familiar things that feel safe and manageable. We may stim more often, speak less, or only watch one show on repeat. I tend to rewatch specific JoJo episodes, seek out dark and scent-free spaces, and wear soft clothes that help me feel regulated.
Our executive functioning begins to fray. We forget appointments, delay basic tasks, or fall behind on things we normally care about. The mental effort it takes to function becomes impossible to sustain. And when being around people has been part of what caused the burnout, connecting with others might feel out of reach.
Support during this time can look small from the outside. But having even one person who understands how to offer care without adding pressure can help keep you afloat.
Burnout does not happen in a vacuum. It is often the result of months or years of cumulative stress, inaccessible environments, or relentless masking. When I look back, I wish I had recognized what was happening earlier. But at the time, there was no framework or support to help me understand what I was going through.
I experienced autistic burnout most clearly in August 2019. I had just left a job that drained me, let go of a PhD I had been encouraged not to pursue, and moved out of a sensory-hostile home. At the same time, I was at the lowest point in my eating disorder and had just ended a difficult experience with an inpatient program that refused to accommodate my Autistic needs.
When we talk about burnout, we also have to talk about the circumstances that made it so severe. The background noise of grief, the pressure to keep going, and the absence of rest all matter. These experiences leave marks, even when they are not visible.
During that time, even the things that usually brought me comfort stopped working. I could not relax. I could not think clearly. It felt like my brain had been replaced with fog. But because I was home with my mum, I did not have to perform. I could rest without explanation. We communicated in small sounds or stickers. I began to decompress, very slowly.
Eventually, I decided not to return to academia. I realized that advocacy felt more meaningful and sustainable. I took up life drawing again because it gave me sensory input that felt gentle. I started rebuilding my days around what I could actually do, not what I thought I should be able to handle.
When the pandemic began, I feared that the disruption would undo everything. But in reality, staying home gave me the extended sensory break I had needed all along. I was finally able to access remote services that respected my Autistic identity. I started therapy with a practitioner who understood me. I reconnected with friends in ways that felt low-pressure and safe. I played games like Animal Crossing with people I had never expected to bond with. I spoke with my best friend nearly every day, even across time zones.
I no longer feel burnt out in the way I once did, but I also know I will never move through the world the way neurotypical people do. That realization was hard. For a long time, I believed I had to meet neurotypical standards of energy and function in order to be taken seriously. Now I see how much that belief cost me.
Going forward, I plan for rest in a way I never did before. I need longer recovery time between tasks. I need to listen when my body and brain tell me they are overwhelmed. Recovery is not about returning to your old self. It is about building a life where your needs are valid and your energy matters.
You do not need to prove anything to deserve support. Burnout is not laziness. It is a response to stress that has gone unmet for too long. Even if it feels endless right now, this state is not permanent. You can find relief. You can rebuild. You are not the only one feeling this way.
If you take anything from this reflection, let it be this: you are not alone. Burnout can end. And there is no shame in needing to rest before you rise.
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