I used to think I was just bad at life. That I couldn’t keep up. That everyone else seemed to have energy reserves I didn’t. I watched people move through their day with ease—working, socialising, switching between tasks without falling apart—and I wondered why I couldn’t do the same without crashing. Why I was always so close to the edge?
It turns out I was living in a near-permanent state of autistic burnout.
Burnout: Not Just Tired, But Spent
My autism diagnostic report defined burnout as “emotional and cognitive exhaustion that affects daily functioning.” That sounds clinical, but in real life it looked like this: I’d stare at the laundry for hours, unable to begin. I’d forget how to use words, or suddenly feel like the world had become unbearably loud and bright. I’d go non-verbal at home but still smile at work. And every time I sat down to rest, I felt like I was failing.
Autistic burnout isn’t the same as being tired after a long day. It’s the deep, cellular depletion that comes from years of masking, over-performing, and constantly adjusting yourself to meet invisible expectations. It’s what happens when you’ve been running on emergency reserves for too long—often without realising you were even in survival mode.
And without a diagnosis, it’s easy to blame yourself for breaking down.
The Exhaustion of Performance
Before I knew I was autistic, I interpreted my social exhaustion as weakness. I’d push myself to be chatty and agreeable at events, then come home and collapse in silence, overwhelmed by the sensory aftermath. I needed to “zone out” just to survive, but that was often mistaken for laziness, depression, or disinterest. In reality, it was my nervous system begging for recovery time.
I avoided resting for fear of being seen as unproductive or selfish. The irony is that avoiding rest just made everything worse. I’d crash harder. I’d dissociate more. I’d find myself unable to do even basic things like respond to a message or make a cup of tea—then shame myself for being “lazy.”
Burnout wasn’t just a result of doing too much. It was a result of doing too much without being understood.
Living Without the Manual
For most of my life, I felt different but didn’t know why. I liken it to building furniture without instructions: you can see the image on the box, but you have no idea how to put the pieces together. Everything took twice as long and left me doubting myself. Why did I always need more time alone? Why did noise feel physically painful? Why did conversations feel like minefields?
Without an explanation, I internalised everything as a personal failing. I was told I was too sensitive. Too emotional. Too intense. So I masked harder. Smiled more. Learned scripts. Said “thank you” too many times. Explained myself until people reassured me they weren’t offended. By the end of every day, I felt like I’d run a marathon in a costume two sizes too small.
Masking helped me survive, but it also meant that no one saw how much I was struggling. Not even me.
Diagnosis: A Key, Not a Cure
When I was finally diagnosed, there was relief—but also grief. Relief in finally understanding myself. Grief for the years spent lost in translation.
The diagnosis gave language to the things I’d never been able to explain: why I needed routines, why I struggled with change, why social ambiguity made me anxious. But it also held a mirror to the burnout I’d been living in for years without a name.
The report suggested things like structured rest and task segmentation as ways to reduce burnout. I remember thinking: “I’ve never been allowed to rest. I don’t even know what that means.” Rest had always felt like a guilty secret, not a need. But the truth is, I wasn’t lazy—I was trying to function in a world that never taught me how to be myself.
The Cost of Being Misunderstood
Burnout isn’t just about exhaustion. It’s about invisibility. It’s the result of being misunderstood over and over again—by others and by yourself.
People often assumed I was fine because I could “perform” well in public. They didn’t see the shutdowns, the panic in silence, the spirals of shame. They mistook masking for confidence. They misread my silence as rudeness, my need for clarity as control, my overwhelm as drama. And every misunderstanding chipped away at my energy, my self-trust, my capacity to stay afloat.
Autistic burnout is real, but unless you have a diagnosis—or unless you speak fluent survival—it’s easy for people to call it something else: laziness, burnout, depression, attention-seeking.
It’s not. It’s a neurological and emotional collapse. And it doesn’t go away just because you pretend it’s not happening.
What I Want You to Know
If you’re late-diagnosed and wondering why everything feels so hard, you’re not imagining it. You’ve been doing life on expert mode without knowing the rules, while everyone else had the manual from day one.
Burnout isn’t a failure. It’s a warning light. And you’re allowed to stop before you hit the wall.
Structured rest isn’t indulgent. It’s survival.
Asking for clarity isn’t rude. It’s self-protection.
Feeling like you’re “too much” isn’t a character flaw. It’s a reflection of a world that hasn’t learned to make space for people like you yet.
Late diagnosis can feel like both an answer and an ache—but it can also be the beginning of living without apology. And that’s something worth burning the old rulebook for.
By Georgina, Trauma Ambassador