This blog is written from lived experience, as an Autistic, ADHD, PDA therapist. What I share here isn’t prescriptive or professional advice — it’s a personal reflection. These are my own experiences, offered in the hope they might resonate, prompt reflection, or create connection with others navigating similar paths
Lately, I’ve found myself back in familiar territory — the kind of burnout that feels like pure exhaustion, but also like an itchy, agitated boredom mixed with an undercurrent of dread. The kind that creeps in not because I’ve been lying on the couch for too long, but because I’ve been doing too much of the wrong kind of thing… or maybe too much of the right thing, too intensely, for too long.
This isn’t the first time. My nervous system knows this terrain well.
Burnout, for me, isn’t just about energy. It’s about identity. It’s about disconnection. It’s the hollow feeling that shows up when I’ve stretched too far for too long, even if everything I was doing felt aligned on paper. Even when it was meaningful. Even when I believed in it.
Because even the things we love can burn us out — especially when we’re neurodivergent, PDA, and wired for depth.
The Fight–Collapse Cycle
I’ve spent most of my life in a loop I didn’t have language for until recently.
The fight–collapse cycle.
When something activates my sense of urgency — whether it’s injustice, the needs of others, professional expectations, or internal pressure — I mobilise. I hyperfocus. I push through. I advocate. I educate. I show up.
And then, without warning, I crash. My body shuts down. My brain fogs. My skin gets prickly. Lights feel too bright. Sounds too sharp. Eating becomes effort. Even nourishment becomes another demand.
It’s not that I stop caring — it’s that I can’t keep going.
The switch flips, and suddenly I’m deep in collapse.
And the shame that follows — that’s a whole layer of burnout all on its own.
The Need for More
Part of what complicates recovery is this:
I don’t thrive in stillness. Not for long.
I need complex mental stimulation to feel alive. Always have.
I need music that moves something in me. Conversations that spiral into unexpected depths. Writing that makes me stop and reread a sentence just to feel it again. Sensory richness. Intellectual engagement. Creative flow.
Shallow distractions don’t do it for me.
“Taking it easy” doesn’t always feel like rest.
Sometimes it feels like disappearance.
Because when I’m not immersed in something meaningful or mentally rich, I don’t just get bored — I start to drift from myself. I feel dulled. Numb. Like I’m watching my own life through a smudged screen.
So here’s the core of it:
Needing rest and needing stimulation can feel like being pulled in two directions by opposing magnets.
Rest soothes my nervous system — but too much of it tips me into apathy.
Engagement brings energy — until it doesn’t. Until it becomes too much, too fast, and I crash again.
There’s no neat formula to balance these needs.
No productivity hack. No routine that guarantees it’ll work.
And the unpredictability of it all — that’s exhausting, too.
Hyperfocus, Purpose, and the Illusion of Balance
For a long time, I built my identity around my ability to show up for others — especially in my work. Advocacy, education, holding space, building resources. The things I poured myself into felt important. Necessary. They were, they are.
But I started noticing how much of myself was getting lost in the process.
When hyperfocus kicks in, it can feel like being invincible — until it turns out I’ve been running on fumes. I don’t notice the buildup. I just keep pushing.
And eventually, my body does what I won’t: it stops me.
That’s the hard part.
Because what begins as purpose can turn into performance.
And what once felt like freedom starts to feel like entrapment — even when no one else is demanding anything.
Giftedness, Monotropism, and the Brain That Craves Depth
Underneath all of this is something I think we don’t talk about enough — a particular kind of neurodivergent experience that’s too often overlooked: the experience of being wired for depth.
Sometimes it’s called giftedness. Sometimes it’s linked to monotropism — the tendency to become deeply absorbed in narrow, meaningful areas of focus. Sometimes it shows up in those of us with PDA profiles, where the more something feels externally demanded or shallow, the more we resist.
But however it shows up, the result is often the same:
We don’t just want depth.
We need it. For regulation. For connection. For meaning.
When our brains don’t get that depth, they start reaching for it in whatever ways they can — sometimes healthy, sometimes not. Sometimes in beautifully immersive creative projects. Sometimes in risky behaviours. Sometimes in overwork. Sometimes in complete withdrawal.
And this isn’t about luxury.
This isn’t about being “too intense” or “too sensitive” or “too much.”
This is biology. This is nervous system survival.
When Work Becomes the Only Place We Feel Alive
For a long time, work was the only place I felt fully switched on.
It gave me purpose. Focus. Identity. Stimulation.
But when work becomes your only source of complexity and connection, it starts to take more than it gives.
I didn’t realise how deeply I’d fused my worth with my ability to show up — until I couldn’t anymore. Until I was so depleted that the idea of writing an email made my chest ache. Until I began to dread the things I once loved.
And yet, the thought of stepping back felt unbearable.
Would people forget me? Would I lose my voice? My relevance?
That word. Relevance.
It keeps sneaking in.
Not because I believe I have to be constantly visible to matter — but because disappearing felt like losing my grip on something that tethered me to myself.
The Work Now: Reconnection, Not Reinvention
So here I am now — in the space between collapse and return.
I’m learning that recovery isn’t just about resting.
It’s about reconnection.
Reconnecting to myself. To my rhythms. To the quiet voice underneath the noise.
Not to reinvent who I am — but to remember her. To return.
Now, I’m rebuilding from the inside out.
Not with grand declarations or return-to-work plans.
Not by jumping back into systems that burned me.
But by listening — really listening — to what my nervous system is asking of me.
Some days, that means silence.
Some days, it means movement, music, colour, expression.
Some days, it’s writing — like this. Quietly. Without a plan. Without demand.
This blog is part of that process.
Not to perform. Not to chase relevance.
But to gently stay connected to what’s important to me — to expression, to truth, to the part of me that still believes in the power of words, even when they come slowly.
It helps me remain connected — to myself, my values, and my voice.
If any part of this resonates, I’d love to hear from you in the comments — you’re welcome to join the conversation, if you feel like sharing. (Please ignore the name/email boxes, no need to fill them in)
Thank you for this article, it is very meaningful and truthful for me.
I see myself in your words and it can help me understand some of my life experiences.
Every single part of this resonates. I want to share it far and wide and hoard it into my heart. I want everyone who interacts with me to know and understand and accommodate for this. I want all the people like me that I’ve brought into this ND self discovery world to read it and know and understand themselves!
Thank you for boldly and gently sharing this into the world!
It’s the brownout for me that I’m trying to catch (the phase just before burnout). I can relate to everything you’ve said. I too have started listening to my earlier warning signals from my body like change in my tone of voice and ability to retrieve the correct words, goosebumps on my arms, noise and light sensitivity and amplified rejection sensitivity. I’m still working on knowing what to do to help me when it happens, it’s very much trial and error atm to find what works for me, but thank you for your experience as it helps to know I’m not alone in my own journey.