In this blog, one of our Trauma Ambassadors, Georgina, describes how it feels to have a neurodivergent meltdown.
“Another spoilt day out, and another defeated tearful journey home wishing that I could have been better, behaved better
Not made a scene, not been dramatic, composed myself with grace and kindness
And yet, and yet I proved them right again, another tale to add to the proof, the litany that follows and yet proceeds me at the same time.
But the sink overflowed, the top heavy toddler tower tripped, the last raindrop caused the flood to move quick, fast, deadly and with no prior notice causing the dam to shatter.
It wasn’t seen how the brick walled crumbled, it wasn’t noted that the pen was beginning to lose its ink, that the battery was fast losing its charge.
And then the eruption
And then the violent quake
And then a drama out of nothing.
I want to sit with what this actually is, because too often the story gets told from the outside. From the moment of the outburst. From the raised voice, the tears, the visible distress. From the part that makes other people uncomfortable.
What gets missed is everything that came before.
1. This Wasn’t a Choice — It Was a System Failure
What looks like a sudden, disproportionate reaction is rarely sudden at all. It isn’t a decision. It isn’t a failure of character or self-control. It’s the point at which an already overloaded system finally gives way.
People focus on the trigger — the small thing — because it’s easier to understand. The spill. The delay. The comment. The last raindrop. But that moment only matters because the system was already at capacity.
When the dam shatters, it isn’t because one drop fell. It’s because the water had been rising for a long time.
Inside, it feels violent. Not dramatic — violent. Control doesn’t gently slip; it disappears. That’s why words like deadly fit. Not because anyone is in danger, but because internally it feels like something essential has been destroyed.
2. The Real Breakdown Happens Quietly
From the outside, it looks like it came from nowhere. From the inside, it’s been happening all day. Or all week. Or longer.
The brick wall didn’t suddenly fall — it crumbled slowly. The pen didn’t stop writing — the ink ran out. The battery didn’t die — it drained.
These are the things no one sees:
● the constant monitoring
● the effort to stay regulated
● the calculations, adjustments, masking, tolerating
By the time there’s an eruption, there is nothing left to draw on. No reserve. No buffer. No warning system that hasn’t already been ignored.
Calling that moment “a drama out of nothing” erases all of this unseen labour.
3. After the Flood Comes the Shame
The hardest part often comes afterwards.
The replaying. The self-critique. The wishing I’d been better. Quieter. Kinder. Less.
It becomes another entry in the internal evidence file. Another story added to the litany — the one that follows me, and somehow gets there before I do. The reputation I can’t outrun. The proof that I was never quite safe to begin with.
The flood recedes, but it leaves residue behind. Not relief — shame. Not understanding — defeat.
What I wish people understood is this: the outburst is not the problem. It’s the signal flare.
The real story is the rising water level. The silent cracking. The resources quietly draining away.
If we want fewer shattered dams, we have to stop only paying attention to the flood — and start asking what pressure someone has been holding back, for how long, and at what cost.
Today I Reflect Back
In mild burnout now, writing this from bed, recovering from a long day where everything seemed to go wrong.
The ride to the station was late. I nearly missed my train to London. My friend’s train was cancelled and she arrived two hours late. We were supposed to dress up in Victorian gear — something I’d been holding in my head all day — and she forgot.
My train ticket stopped working, so I had to speak to station staff. Another unexpected interaction. Another demand on already thinning reserves. I was put in charge of map reading, and then I had a blip — a moment where my brain stalled — and suddenly they were off with me for overreacting.
What they didn’t see was the shutdown. Or maybe they did, but didn’t recognise it for what it was.
Because the truth is, there are moments where I want to stamp my feet and shout. Where the pressure is so intense that my body wants release. But I don’t — because I know I can’t. Because I’ve learned what happens when I do.
Instead, I swallow it. I go quiet. I disappear inward.
Then came the familiar refrains.
That everyone’s on the spectrum. That I was lucky not to get a label early on. That “neurotypical” is actually quite derogatory — for neurotypicals.
Each comment small on its own. Each one another drop of water.
And so, a good day out ended as usual.
In a toilet.
Not because the day was bad. But because the dam had already been cracking long before we arrived.”
Georgina,
Trauma Ambassador