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Every year or so, it happens again.

I have what I can only describe as my annual autistic breakdown.

And the really frustrating thing? It follows a completely predictable pattern. Which is ironic, isn’t it — because as an autistic person, I actually find comfort in predictability. You’d think that would mean I’d see it coming and put the brakes on before it happened.

But no. Every… Single… Time…!

Whenever I start a new job, I throw myself into it completely. I work every hour I possibly can. I give it everything — my energy, my focus, my whole heart. I stay late, I take on extra tasks, I push myself to always do just a little bit more.

And then eventually… I burn out.

My mood drops. Getting out of bed starts to feel like a monumental effort. The housework piles up. Even the smallest tasks feel completely overwhelming.

And the worst part?

I hate myself when I get like that.

Because in my head, it just feels like laziness. It feels like failure. I need to feel productive. I need to feel like I’m doing something worthwhile with my time, like I’m contributing in some way. Sitting still doesn’t come naturally to me — and when I’m forced into it, it doesn’t feel like rest. It just feels like falling behind.

But the truth is a wee bit more complicated than that.

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Work Is My Safe Place

When I’m working, I feel safe.

Work is predictable. Work has rules. Work has structure.

I know what’s expected of me. I know how to do my job well. There are clear tasks and clear outcomes — and for an autistic brain that’s constantly trying to analyse and process absolutely everything around it, that kind of structure is genuinely comforting.

While I’m working, my brain finally gets a break from something that exhausts me far, far more than the actual work itself.

Overthinking.

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The Constant Noise in My Head

When I’m not busy, my brain fills the silence with questions.

Did I upset someone at the weekend by the way I said something?

Did I embarrass myself by getting too excited at my son’s parents’ evening while talking to his teacher?

Did I say something that sounded completely stupid at that networking event?

Did someone misunderstand me?

Did I come across the wrong way?

These thoughts don’t just pass through. They replay. Over and over again, like a film stuck on loop.

Every facial expression I noticed. Every tone of voice. Every single word I said.

Analysed. Re-analysed. Picked apart.

For a lot of autistic people, social interactions don’t just end when the conversation does. They carry on for hours, days — sometimes even years — inside our heads. And honestly, it is absolutely exhausting.

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Why I Fill Every Hour With Work

So I do what makes sense to my brain.

I stay busy.

If every hour of the day is filled with work, tasks, and responsibilities, my brain doesn’t have the space to spiral. Work becomes a kind of shield. A distraction. A way to drown out the constant mental replay of every social interaction I’ve ever had.

But that coping strategy comes with a cost.

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The Crash That Always Comes

Because eventually, my brain and body just run out of steam.

Nobody can operate at full capacity forever. And that goes double for autistic people, who are already burning through enormous amounts of mental energy just navigating a world that wasn’t really designed for the way our brains work.

So the crash comes.

And when it does, it feels like everything stops all at once. Motivation disappears. Energy disappears. Even simple, everyday things feel impossible.

And then the guilt sets in.

Because from the outside, it can look like I’ve suddenly become lazy. Like I’ve just… stopped trying. And that perception absolutely kills me, because I know how hard I push myself.

But what’s actually happening is autistic burnout. And it’s very, very real.

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Learning to Be Kinder to Myself

I’m still figuring this one out, if I’m honest.

I’m still learning that productivity doesn’t equal worth. That rest isn’t the same as laziness. That needing to stop doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

And most importantly — I’m learning that my brain isn’t broken. It’s just wired differently. And there’s actually nothing wrong with that.

The reality is that so many autistic people push themselves well beyond their limits just to keep up with a world that moves too fast and demands constant social navigation. We’re exhausted before the day has even really started, and yet we keep going anyway.

Sometimes the crash isn’t a failure.

Sometimes it’s your body and your brain finally saying: you’ve done enough. It’s time to rest now.

And maybe the real challenge for me — the thing I actually need to work on — isn’t learning how to push harder.

Maybe it’s learning how to stop before the burnout arrives.