neurodiversity

The kind of burnout that doesn’t look like burnout

Burnout doesn’t always look obvious. Sometimes it’s invisible. You can look completely fine on the outside, but inside you’re emotionally spiraling.

For me, it looks like functioning but quietly feeling less and less like myself. I think that’s why it took me so long to recognize it in my own life.

For a while, I kept telling myself that I was just tired, overwhelmed, or stuck in a rough patch. But deep down, I knew it was more than that because I could literally feel myself emotionally drifting away from everything around me. Even the things I normally loved started to feel like too much.

When even small things start feeling heavy

There were days where something as simple as taking my medication felt exhausting. The idea of having to reach into my drawer, take them out, grab water, then actually take them felt like too much effort. I’m not happy to admit that because it sounds like laziness at its finest, but when you’re that drained, it’s hard to do anything because your mind feels too overloaded to even get up and do it.

Even reading a book, sometimes I feel anxious and pressured to get through it. I’ll sit there with the book in hand, rereading every sentence because it just doesn’t stick. I have too many thoughts swirling around, and it’s difficult to focus. I don’t know where all the pressure to finish comes from, but it nearly makes me lose interest completely—and that makes me feel even worse.

When your mind is too full to take anything in

When I’m with people, sometimes I lose interest in conversations halfway through because my brain feels too crowded to process external noise. Just the other day, I was out with friends trying to be present and engaging, but inside I was jumping from thought to thought, internally criticizing myself and overthinking everything. I was burnt out from it all. In that moment, I wanted to retreat and be alone just so I wouldn’t feel like I was affecting other people’s experience.

I always want to be alone, but the thing with that is it creates loneliness. That strange contradiction is one of the hardest parts.

When you’re still functioning, but not okay

I think people imagine burnout as something obvious, but mine is quiet. I still function, show up, and complete responsibilities, but I feel emotionally flattened. Like I’ve been surviving for so long that my mind no longer knows how to really rest.

Sometimes when I’m sitting at my computer trying to write—something that normally brings me joy and comfort—I feel disconnected from my own thoughts. I’ll just stare at the screen with this overwhelming restlessness, waiting for inspiration to strike. I feel this utter emptiness. Like my brain has reached full capacity and nothing else can get in.

And honestly, that scares me more than a breakdown does, because it’s easier to recognize obvious pain. It’s harder to notice the slow emotional fading that happens when you’ve been carrying heaviness for too long.

The slow emotional fading you don’t notice at first

There are times when I’m sitting in complete silence and wonder when the last time I genuinely felt happy or excited about anything was. I feel like it’s rare for those emotions to surface lately. I’m always too mentally exhausted, and it’s hard to remember what joy feels like—the feeling of it, the shift in it. Not being able to feel that makes me feel so disconnected from my own life.

Neurodivergence, overstimulation, and invisible exhaustion

I think burnout can feel especially confusing for neurodivergent and sensitive people because many of us are already used to operating in a constant state of mental overstimulation. We become so accustomed to masking, overthinking, self-monitoring, and pushing through discomfort that exhaustion starts feeling normal.

For me, burnout looks like not being fully present. I’ll make coffee, clean around the house, go through my routine, but I never feel connected to any of it. It’s like living in survival mode without fully noticing you’re there.

The guilt of still functioning

There have been moments where I’ve felt guilty for being exhausted because technically, I was still functioning. I wasn’t falling apart publicly. I wasn’t incapable of doing things. So I convinced myself I had no reason to complain or feel burnt out.

I think that many of us forget that functioning doesn’t mean the same as being okay. Especially those of us who learned early on to push through discomfort instead of listening to ourselves.

The quietest form of burnout

I’m learning that burnout doesn’t need to become catastrophic before it deserves attention. I’ve realized that I don’t need to completely collapse to admit that I’m overwhelmed. I’m noticing that burnout settles into your life over time, slowly dimming the parts of you until one day you look around and barely recognize yourself inside your own routines.

I think healing begins the moment we stop treating our exhaustion like something we have to earn the right to feel.

Have you ever felt exhausted in a way that looked “fine” from the outside—but quietly disconnected you from yourself inside?

“Some of the deepest exhaustion is the kind no one else can see—where you are still functioning, but slowly disappearing inside yourself.

#MentalHealth #Anxiety #ADHD #Neurodiversity #Autism #Depression #MightyTogether

There’s an exhaustion that comes with constantly thinking about how you’re coming across that most people never see.

There are so many doubts, worries, and insecurities running through my mind. I become so much in my head that I completely forget how to be present. I’m too deep in thought about my facial expressions, my tone, my gestures, and wondering if I’m being engaging enough or if I’m being too much.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat in my car before going out to a social gathering, mentally preparing myself first. Thinking about who’s going to be there. What conversations might happen. Whether I’ll be talkative or quiet that day. Sometimes I’ll even rehearse little things in my head beforehand just so I don’t feel awkward once I’m actually there.

And even then, I still overthink everything once I walk in.

On the outside, I generally look like I’m fine. I can hold my own, but not with steady grace. I can falter at a moment’s notice if my mind takes over the situation too much and convinces me that I’m a problem.

One time I was sitting at dinner with a group of friends, trying so hard to stay engaged in the conversation. I was smiling, laughing, and contributing when I could. But mentally, I was analyzing myself. Thinking about whether I was making enough eye contact or wondering if I sounded interesting enough.

The worst part about it is that even while in deep conversation, I’m thinking about myself, not the other person. I was talking with one friend, trying to stay engaged in what they were saying, but internally I’m thinking about how I’m coming across. I lock in on their eyes, but even then I’m thinking about which eye to look at, or how long to hold it before breaking away. It’s not that I’m not paying attention, because I am—it’s just that I’m also focused heavily on how I’m coming across.

Most people don’t notice the internal observations I’m making. They don’t see the pain behind the smile or the restlessness behind the eyes. It’s so exhausting playing two people at once—one who is there, and one who is mentally checked out on their own accord.

During that conversation with my friend, I remember seeing their mouth and hearing what they were saying, but inside I was planning out the next thing I would say. And the more I thought about it, the more awkward I became. I could feel my chest tighten, my palms sweat, and that overwhelming numbing feeling that consumes my body. It’s like an immediate internal vibration—a genuine shock to the system where I’m all of a sudden hyper-alert and incredibly anxious.

Essentially, I froze. I always freeze up during moments of long silence or moments of drawing nothing but blanks.

I feel so much pressure to keep the conversation going. I’ve always put so much pressure on myself to perform well, to not be dull, to be someone everyone wants to be around. That’s my mindset all of the time. I can’t help but automatically think about it.

As always, I replay the situation over and over in my mind, thinking about how I was and how I should’ve been. I try to rewrite the narrative and think that I came across as strong, talkative, and social, but that’s rarely the case.

My brain turns tiny moments into evidence that I’m awkward, distant, strange, too emotional, or somehow failing socially without meaning to.

And I know logically most people are probably not analyzing me nearly as hard as I analyze myself. But in the moment, it feels real. My brain treats every small interaction like something I need to review.

If someone’s energy shifts slightly, I notice. If a text sounds different, I notice. And if I leave a conversation feeling even slightly off, my mind latches onto it immediately.

I think I became hyperaware of people at a very young age—very sensitive to moods, expressions, tones, and reactions. Somewhere along the way, I learned to constantly monitor myself in response to them.

I spent years thinking that if I could just perfectly manage how I came across, then maybe I’d finally feel comfortable around people. But honestly, all it did was make me exhausted. Because there’s no rest when you’re constantly observing yourself.

I think that’s why being alone can feel like relief for me. It’s not because I don’t love being around my selective group of people, it’s because my mind finally gets a break from being perceived.

Lately, I’ve been trying really hard not to assume that every silence means something about me. Trying not to immediately turn inward every time I feel awkward for half a second. It’s a difficult process, but I’m slowly letting go of my uncertainties little by little.

Those moments now feel bigger to me than they probably sound.

Because for too long, I didn’t know how to exist around people without feeling like I had to constantly manage who I was while doing it.

What parts of your personality feel shaped by how you think others see you?

“Care about what other people think and you will always be their prisoner.” — Lao Tzu

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder #SocialAnxiety #MightyTogether

I didn’t realize how often I’m “on” socially until I notice how drained I feel afterward.

It's not because I didn't enjoy it. It's because of how much thinking I do while I'm in it.

Anyone else relate to that feeling of being physically present but mentally overanalyzing everything?

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Autism #Anxiety #Depression #MightyTogether

For most of my life, criticism has felt more natural to me than comfort. It’s felt like an automatic reaction rather than something thought out. Immediate. Intense. Familiar.

My inner critic attacks my every thought, my every word, my every move. I’ve followed this pattern of negativity and self-hatred for as long as I can remember.

I think it stems from never feeling comfortable in my own skin. I grew up thinking there was something wrong with me because I felt so different from my peers. It felt like I didn’t belong. Like I never quite fit into the picture. And that feeling of loneliness made me ashamed of myself.

I judged myself for being too sensitive, too quiet, too distant. From the beginning, I made myself invisible by choice because I thought I wasn’t likeable or acceptable for my personality.

When I’m in a group socializing, I feel extremely awkward. Like I’m standing there incessantly rubbing my sweaty palms together, my facial expressions can often indicate that I’m unwell, and I have trouble speaking at all. I never know when to jump into conversation because I’m mentally preparing for what to say, how to say it, and how to act while doing so. And then, everything faulters. I end up staying quiet the whole time, just consciously in my thoughts, hating myself for not being “normal.” Why do I have to constantly put myself down when I do anything? It’s a question that’s boggled my mind for years.

I believed I was dull, boring, and rather plain. I felt like I just wasn’t good at anything—whether it was a hobby like art or making new friends. I would retreat inward and treat myself cruelly because of it.

There are so many times that great opportunities passed me by because of the intense negativity towards myself. I’d psych myself out of these opportunities telling myself that I’m not good enough, smart enough, or capable enough to handle something bigger for me. There were a couple of moments that I had interviews for dream jobs. One of them being a career in hospitality public relations.

I’ve always had a passion for gastronomy and tourism, and it was a job I really wanted to vie for. After hours, heck days, of mentally trying to prepare, I’d put myself down with those thoughts. I showed up to the interview (gave myself a pat on the back for at least walking in) and got through each question. But when I answered, my voice shook, my demeanor was unsteady, and my mind drifted, automatically criticizing my every word. Afterward, I immediately started crying and yelling at myself for being so awkward and so obviously uncomfortable.

There are times when I shrink myself so small that I literally believe every negative thought about me. I’ll sit there dwelling in certain scenarios from the past or the present and make myself out to be the enemy regardless of the situation.

What’s been difficult to realize is how unfamiliar gentleness feels to me now. It’s not because I don’t need it, but because criticism became the language I learned to speak to myself in.

Comfort can feel foreign sometimes. Even uncomfortable. There are moments where I try to reassure myself and immediately feel resistance, like my mind doesn’t fully believe I deserve kindness.

In most situations I’m generally uncomfortable. Like if someone compliments me, I’ll try my best to steer away from the compliment and continue the conversation. I shy away. I’ve never known how to receive them well because I genuinely don’t believe what someone is telling me because deep down I feel unworthy. And then I realize just how harsh my inner critic is. It won’t even let me accept a simple compliment. I’m noticing just how harsh my self-talk sounds out loud. I practically cringe at the thought.

I’m realizing that when you spend years tearing yourself apart internally, compassion doesn’t come naturally overnight. It has to be practiced repeatedly.

I’m trying to unlearn the idea that I need to earn kindness from myself.

For so long, I believed comfort came from rest after constant productivity. But the truth is, I’ve spent years withholding compassion from myself during the moments when I needed it most.

I’m noticing how quickly my mind moves toward blame when something goes wrong. How instinctively I criticize myself for being emotional, overwhelmed, anxious, or withdrawn. It happens in an instant and I barely realize I’m doing it.

It feels unnatural for me to experience kindness towards myself. Because when criticism has been your default for years, compassion feels almost suspicious.

But I don’t want my inner voice to keep sounding like someone I’m afraid of. I want to learn how to speak to myself with softness instead of shame. With understanding instead of punishment.

I’m still unsure how to go about it, but I know that with practice, patience, and learning to really love myself, I’ll get there.

“Talk to yourself like someone you love.” — Brené Brown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Depression #ADHD #Anxiety #GeneralizedAnxietyDisorder #Autism #MightyTogether

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my life—past events, current situations, and future plans—and it’s made me question if I’m truly moving forward or just existing in a state of stagnation. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be present in your own life versus simply going through the motions, and whether I’ve been living with intention or just functioning out of habit.

Most of my life I’ve operated on autopilot. It feels like waking up and doing the same thing every single day without even thinking about it. It’s become routine, ordinary, and repetitive. I’m merely just functioning, not truly living. And that’s something that I want to change.

I’ve lived my life by my own set of rules. I always have. Personally, I never like to be told what to do, when to do it, or how to do it. Generally, I like to figure things out on my own without any help. I can be stubborn that way.

Embracing Life Lessons: A Letter to My 100-Year-Old Self

But sometimes, I feel like I need a little guidance, a sense of direction because so far, my rules haven’t helped me achieve the things I want out of life.

I feel like my life is passing me by. I’ve become so functional, so operational, that I forget there’s a whole other life to live. I’ve become somewhat of a hermit. I rarely leave my house unless I have to. But that’s a very lonely space.

More often than not, it’s hard not to compare yourself to others when you notice how full their lives look. Those impressions you get through personally knowing someone or seeing it via social media. Social media is a dangerous rabbit hole to go down if you’re looking to uplift yourself. It just isn’t going to happen.

But right now, I just feel like my life isn’t going anywhere. I feel like I’m just existing. There’s such an emptiness there.

For the past few years, I would say that I’ve been in a mental fog. A dissociative state if you will. I’ve felt out of touch with my emotions in the sense that they don’t hit me fully until later on, when I least expect it.

I want a life where I don’t just feel functional. I want a life that I can fully and wholly be a part of. I’m done sitting back and watch time go by. I’ve learned just how precious time can be because right now it feels like I suddenly woke up after years of hibernation.

Years flew by in a flash. All I know is that I was twenty years old yesterday, but today, let’s just say a lot of time has passed since. I feel old without being old. I feel like I missed out on so many opportunities and experiences because I was in such a state of disconnection for so long.

I’m starting to pay more attention to this and trying to find ways to help myself get out of this bubble I’ve been in. I need change, and I need it now. That’s truthfully how I feel. So, I’m beginning to take more action instead of staying still.

It’s strange to realize how long you can be functioning without really being present in your own life. And what’s sitting with me most is not just that it’s been happening, but that I didn’t fully notice how far I had drifted until now. I don’t know what comes next, but I do know I don’t want to keep existing in a way where I feel this far away from myself.

When was the last time you felt truly present in your own life—not just functioning through it?

“Lost time is never found again.” — Benjamin Franklin

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Autism #Depression #Anxiety #MightyTogether

I didn’t realize I was using self-care as a way to fix myself. Until I kept trying—and nothing ever stayed.

Trying to fix myself

For a long time, I genuinely thought that self-care was going to fix me. Like if I just found the right routine, the right flow, the right version of myself then things would start to feel easier. I thought that things would be more manageable, clearer, and more together.

So, I tried everything in the book. I bought journals, wrote out the routines, and told myself, this time I’m going to do it right. But it never stuck.

I remember one time being so motivated to really set a schedule and keep up with it. I was in my early twenties and back then, things seemed more capable and achievable. A friend and I set out to make our lives a little healthier by exercising regularly and cutting back on sugar. So, we joined a gym, made lighter meals, and leaned on one another for support.

We both made great improvements during our trips to the gym, eating better, and focusing on maintaining balance and clarity. I must say that exercise, even though I despise it at times, genuinely does improve your mood, your energy, and your mental health. But still, it wasn’t a routine or lifestyle that lasted very long.

Despite the progress and the mood shift, I just couldn’t keep up with it any longer. There was too much pressure I put on myself to go every day, eat the same things that didn’t fill my appetite, and just too much effort at the end of the day to keep doing a routine. It became tiring, mundane, and emotionally overwhelming.

I became very down on myself for not keeping up something that helped both my mind and my body. Why couldn’t I just make this a part of my lifestyle? Why couldn’t I just stick with something for once in my life? Plain and simple, I lost the gusto—the motivation to keep going and pushing through the discomfort of actually following through with the plans. My friend and I both stopped going about a month or so into it.

The thing is, I know that it would help me in the best way, but still I sat there frozen by the idea that this was what the rest of my life would look like. And that made me feel miserable. Truthfully, I hated the gym because of sensory issues. I hated eating smaller portions and nuts and berries all the time. I missed my old way of life, even if it wasn’t conducive.

The pattern I couldn’t escape

There have been so many times in my life where I would set out goals, hopes, passions and make them into something fruitful. But more often than not, nothing would work out the way that I intended. My routines always fell to the wayside after a few days. I guess I would just lose interest quickly. And I always felt this shame, this guilt for not being able to follow through on even the simplest of tasks.

I just remember being so excited to get out my journal and start writing out a structured routine to keep me on track. I’d highlight, color code, and make it look aesthetically appealing. But it often gathered dust on my desk for weeks, even months after. I just couldn’t follow through. It really did make me feel like something was wrong with me.

That I just didn’t have discipline, or consistency, or whatever it is people seem to naturally have. It wasn’t like I didn’t care. I cared a lot actually. I wanted to feel better, have more structure, and wanted to be someone who could follow through on the things I set out to do.

But every single time something didn’t stick, it felt like I was proving the same thing over and over again—that I just couldn’t get it right.

The shift

And that’s when something started to change for me. I had small realizations like… what if it wasn’t that I couldn’t stick to anything? What if I was trying to force myself into things that didn’t actually fit me?

Because when I look back, a lot of it didn’t feel natural.

The routines felt rigid. The expectations felt heavy. And the structure felt like pressure instead of support. And I was trying to push through all of that like that’s just what you’re supposed to do. Like if something is “good for you,” you just force yourself to do it no matter how it feels.

But it didn’t feel good. All of that pressure was actually working against me. Because every time I couldn’t keep up with it, I didn’t think, maybe this isn’t for me. I thought, I’m the problem.

And that’s what I’m starting to unlearn now. That just because something works for someone else doesn’t mean that it works for me. And just because something is labeled “self-care” doesn’t mean it actually feels like care.

What self-care looks like now

Now, self-care looks completely different.

For me, it’s not a routine I follow to the tee. It’s not something I stick to everyday. Not structured or aesthetic most of the time. It’s something I do when I can.

Some days I have more energy and some days I don’t. Some days I can cook something simple and feel okay. Other days when I’m overwhelmed, hungry, irritated, and standing in the kitchen with no capacity to decide, I just choose whatever feels easiest. I used to judge myself for that. For not trying hard enough. But now I see it differently.

Self-care is about choosing what feels manageable. It isn’t about pushing myself past the point where I know I’m going to shut down. It’s quieter than I thought it would be. It supports me in a way those routines never did.

I still have days where I overthink everything. Days where I feel off for no reason. Days where even the smallest things feel a heck of a lot harder than they should. But it helps me stay present in the moment I’m in. It helps me stay with myself instead of completely shutting down.

My self-care looks like

• Taking a walk outside, even if only for a few minutes, just to move a little and smell the fresh air. I stay indoors a lot, so going outside is something I need to do at least twice a day to help me feel a little more alive.

• Taking hot showers at night to soothe my aching muscles. I experience a lot of tension in my shoulders. It’s where all of my stress goes, and let me tell you, I’m stiff as a board. So I need something to release a bit of that pain.

• Organizing my desk at home. For me, I need tidiness and organization when it comes to writing. I need a clear space in front of me to let out the messiness inside of me. I write all the time, so it’s essentially my main form of self-care.

• Reading always helps me to calm my mind. Sometimes I feel pressure to read because friends and I read the same novel together, but I never force it. I let it come naturally when I feel like I’m in the mood for a good story.

• Light cooking helps me feel like myself again. Cooking has always been a passion, and a way for me to focus on something when my mind needs stillness. Making something simple yet creative makes me feel good about myself.

Small things like that are my self-care. Plain and simple. It’s what grounds me, and what makes me feel like myself. It might not be anything extravagant, but it’s tailored to my specific needs.

Conclusion

This is what helps me get through the day to day. And I no longer feel guilty that my self-care doesn’t look like my gym days. I feel more comfortable with the smaller aspects of what makes my life feel more manageable.

Because self-care didn’t fix everything. But it helps me stay.

What if self-care isn’t about fixing yourself, but about learning how to stay with yourself?

“You don’t have to fix everything to be okay.” — Unknown

#selfcare #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD

Personally, I had a rough week. It was filled with unexpected stressors, negative thought patterns, and low energy with minimal movement. I'm not going to lie, I've felt rather lonely during this time, but a friend reached out over the weekend and made me feel a little better just knowing that someone wanted my company given that i was so down the past few days. It cheered me up a bit.

Did you have any moments that brought you joy? Let me know!

#MightyTogether #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Depression #ADHD #AutismSpectrum #Anxiety