Notes on My Own Autistic Burnout: (& building a life that doesn't eat me)
- Elle Dee
- Aug 12
- 4 min read
Updated: Oct 8
A late night, straight talk with friends about sensory debt, masking fatigue, and learning to live at a kinder pace.
When everything became too much
During my worst stretch of autistic burnout, I woke up each day already over capacity. Things that used to take no effort - basic tasks, short conversations, choosing what to eat—became confusing, overwhelming, or completely unreachable.
My emotional range narrowed to a low, steady hum. Joy, anxiety, irritation, curiosity - it all blurred into a flat, persistent hum of just get through this.
Even small things - fabric textures, background noise, a sudden request - felt like an avalanche.
And if that’s where you are right now, I want to say this clearly: you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not failing.
Why burnout finds folks like us
Looking back, the signs were all there. But when you're used to pushing through, it’s hard to recognize the cliff edge until you’re already over it.
Years of translating myself into spaces that move too fast and too loud. Masking every day, sometimes every hour. Swallowing sensory discomfort, social confusion, and constant noise.
Being both queer and neurodivergent added extra layers. Code-switching. Compartmentalizing. Reading every room before I could even figure out what I felt.
And underneath it all, the old script: “Everyone else can manage. Keep going.”
But we’re not wired to live like that. And we shouldn't have to be.
Signals I didn't understand (then)
I know them now, but I didn’t always. These are the signals I missed - or minimized - on my way toward collapse:
Cognitive drag – Sentences unraveled before I could finish them.
Flattened emotions – Everything felt neutral. Even joy. Even fear.
Body distress – Sounds pierced. Food upset my stomach. Sleep was unpredictable.
Script failures – I’d freeze mid-conversation. The words just stopped coming.
Foggy tasks – One email could take a whole day.
None of these came on suddenly. But together, they spelled a warning I didn’t know how to read.
What's at stake with autistic burnout
This wasn’t a rough patch. This was a neurological shutdown.
Autistic burnout isn't theoretical. It alters brain function. Research has shown changes in executive functioning, emotional processing, and neural connectivity that can last for months - sometimes years.
In the depths of it, I couldn’t read a full paragraph. I couldn’t track conversations. I’d forget why I entered a room, or lose words mid-sentence and never get them back.
And when my capacity started returning, nothing was where I’d left it. Friendships had grown distant. Work was stalled. Even my own interests felt foreign.
I’d broken myself trying to keep everything intact. That’s the part that still cuts.
Which is why now - on this side of it - I treat those early signs like a fire alarm, not a feeling.
How I rebuilt (and still am)
Recovery wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, incremental, and often unglamorous.
I started with energy drains. Harsh lighting. Group chats that pinged all night. The pressure to answer messages in real-time. I gave myself permission to let things wait.
Then came the non-negotiables: consistent sleep. Noise-canceling headphones. Short breaks between tasks, even when I didn’t feel like I’d “earned” them. I started anchoring habits to daily cues - breathing while the kettle boiled, stretching before opening my laptop.
I reconnected with neuroqueer community - people who understand energy math and don’t need footnotes. We trade support in ways that feel mutual, not transactional.
And I finally learned to speak clearly about my limits. Saying “I’m at capacity” didn’t make me flaky. It made me trustworthy - to others and to myself.
Joy became part of the rebuild too. Not extravagant, just real. Favorite songs. Good smells. Books I’ve read ten times. Joy isn’t the reward. It’s the medicine.
A closing reflection
I didn’t write this while I was in burnout. I couldn’t have.
That part of me was offline - protecting itself the only way it knew how.
But now that I’ve lived through it, I want to say this to anyone teetering near the edge: rest is not a luxury. It’s the architecture of survival.
Autistic burnout takes. But it also reveals. It shows you exactly what parts of your life ask too much. It clears the table. It invites you to rebuild, slowly, from the shape of your own nervous system.
That’s the work I’m doing now. And if you are too, know this:
Capacity does return.
Joy is not lost.
You are not behind.
This life can be shaped around what actually sustains you - not what empties you in the name of fitting in.
--Elle
Want to Keep Exploring?
This space is still new, but it’s already full of big questions, half-formed truths, and stories that might sound a little like yours. If you’re curious where to go next, here are a few places to wander:
Or, if you just want to be here quietly. No pressure. No performance. I love that you’re here. |
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