I have a vested interest, writing about rest, currently. I am off work. Again. Until 2024, I had never taken time off for non-physical ill health. And I am lucky to have had consistently good physical health during my working life to date – something which I recognise is an immense privilege. But about a year ago, I just broke. And I’m not sure I’ve had the chance to put myself back together again fully, as I found myself taking a month off work twice within a short space of time. I’m not trying to be pessimistic, but, back in the same position once more right now, I’m feeling more like Humpty Dumpty than a phoenix ready to rise from the ashes. (In case you’re not au fait with British nursery rhymes, Humpty Dumpty is an egg who falls off a wall and can’t be reassembled.)

Realising it’s autistic burnout
This current period of absence is the first following my autism diagnosis – I thought my needing to be off work during 2024 was stress-and-depression-related. No one had even suggested I might be neurodivergent when I had my first ‘breakdown’, and my second breakdown coincided with looking into an ADHD assessment, which then resulted in a non-diagnosis (although I remain convinced that I am, in fact, an ADHDer). So, I had no reason to think that autism might be contributing to my stress. Except that now, armed with the knowledge that I am autistic, I am certain that my breakdowns were, in fact, episodes of acute autistic burnout. Just like how I am probably going through burnout right now. (Autistic burnout is a period of extreme exhaustion characterised by a loss of skills and ability to function, and heightened sensory sensitivity.)

Knowing it’s autistic burnout is helpful, but not a solution in itself
In some ways, it’s reassuring to have an explanation for why I am failing to keep up with life’s demands – I can cut myself a bit more slack, where, prior to diagnosis, I might have come down a bit harder on myself for ‘not functioning’. However, it has been mere months since my therapist suggested I may be autistic, so I am not yet very well equipped to accommodate my neurodivergent self. This is frustrating, as I would love to have more skills in my armoury to enable me to recover properly from autistic burnout when I’m in it. Being able to prevent burnout altogether? An ambition for further in the future. For now, it feels like I’m just winging it, just about coping. I have been reading up widely on what helps other autistic people through rough patches like this, but, if I’m honest, I find myself overwhelmed faced with dozens of people’s myriad ways of coping – will any of these work for me? Where do I even start trying to test out so many strategies? Self-work and cultivating healthy coping mechanisms is exhausting at the best of times, without taking into account my currently burned-out state.

Despite feeling daunted by how much there is related to my autism that I had never known could exacerbate my stress – sensory triggers, too many social events, last-minute work projects, for example – I know I have already made progress towards understanding what the autistic me needs. For 27 years, I ignored signs that I needed to slow down – why would I? I had mastered, I thought, the art of powering through, first school, then university, then various jobs. Except last year proved to me that I was not the master I – and, crucially, those around me, regarded myself to be – I’d just kicked the can of all-consuming fatigue down the road to the point at which I had to stop. In doing so, it can feel like I’m letting down the people who see me as the academically capable, driven woman my masking has fashioned me into. (‘Masking’ or ‘camouflaging’ is putting in effort to alter your behaviour or appearance to seem more neurotypical, or less autistic.)

Learning that rest helps, and what that rest looks like
But what have I learned? (Let’s bring some levity to avoid this post being entirely negative.) I am more aware of the different ways in which I might need rest or downtime, and when this means taking time off work. Sometimes I need a day in bed, punctuated by naps to catch up on sleep – my whirring mind often leaves me struggling to fall asleep at night. At other times, I need a whole day (or days) of no plans or obligations, ready to fill with low-key activities. For example, today, I have made coffee and breakfast with a podcast on, read a book (about autism – a special interest of mine now) while listening to a playlist, then gone to write in a local coffee shop. I might go swimming later if the pool isn’t busy or do some yoga in my bedroom. My partner will cook, for which I am so grateful, as my executive (dys)function means this activity poses a particular challenge.

The key when I’m burned out is carving out the time to engage in my interests, moving my body in a non-vigorous way, and avoiding social interactions. Oh, and all of this is with noise-cancelling headphones and/or earplugs in to keep sensory overload at bay. This is why time off work can be so beneficial – it allows you the space and time to listen to your mind and body, rather than having to exist within the confines of an externally dictated schedule of externally dictated tasks. My as-yet-undiagnosed ADHD makes resting harder than I would like, but I can still try to tune into what I feel I need when I sense I’m all out of – or very low on – spoons. (Here, ‘spoons’ are units of energy. The extended metaphor, or ‘spoon theory’, as it’s known, includes thinking about different daily tasks as costing various numbers of spoons depending on their intensity so you can gauge how you might prioritise your limited energy reserves.)

Looking after yourself can be really hard
It feels like two steps forward, four steps back, figuring out how to survive life, especially when I’m burned out. It is hard listening to my body – which may or may not be down to alexithymia (inability to pinpoint one’s own emotions in the moment) and/or poor interoception (the ability to process internal bodily signals; both of these are common autistic experiences.)  And my mental health co-morbidities make navigating my way through burnout, and life in general, even more complicated. (Maybe more on those in a future post, as countless studies underline how high the proportion of autistic people with poor mental health is.)

I would like to end by reinforcing the fact that this is all my personal experience of recently being formally diagnosed as autistic, at 27, as a woman. I recognise that how I see myself in light of my diagnosis, and how I respond to it, may not ring true for others. But the goal here is to share what I’ve gone through and what I’m learning, linking these back to what research, both anecdotal and scientific, shows are common autistic experiences. I hope you may be able to relate to elements of what I’ve written, and maybe even find solace in that. And you definitely don’t need to be diagnosed formally by a medical professional to identify as autistic and accommodate your needs accordingly.