So, my last post was… well, it was a bit heavy, wasn’t it? I wrote about how much I was struggling, how the sheer amount of ‘stuff’—the demands of work, the beautiful chaos of family life—was becoming overwhelming. I was burning out, and I was teetering right on the edge of that cliff.
And I think the most honest update I can give you is that I’m not quite right, but I’m a whole lot better than I was. I don’t feel I ever fully tumbled over into a complete burnout; it was more of a close miss, I suppose. A desperate grab for the ledge before the fall. This post is for anyone who knows that feeling. It’s to let you know that I’m okay, and more importantly, to share what I’m actively doing to be okay. Because recovery, I’m learning, isn’t a passive state—it’s a series of very deliberate, very conscious choices.
What Happens When the Spoons Run Out?
Last week was the tipping point. I felt ill, I was being constantly bombarded by the unique and potent germs only a toddler can provide (parenting, eh?), and I’d also just had a flu jab which, in retrospect, perhaps wasn’t my finest idea. My body was just… done.
For those of us who are autistic, this isn’t just about feeling a bit run down. This is the very real, very physical manifestation of autistic burnout. It’s a state of complete exhaustion—physically, mentally, and emotionally—caused by the cumulative effect of trying to navigate a world that wasn’t built for our brains. It’s a classic case of running out of spoons. If you’ve read my post on the Spoon Theory, you’ll know exactly what I mean. My spoon drawer was completely empty.
The Art of Deliberate Self-Care (It’s More Than Just Bubble Baths)
So, this week has been an exercise in being deliberate. I’ve been so conscious of not over-extending myself, of trying—as best as I can—to conserve my energy. To be careful.
This, right here, is what self-care actually is. It’s not just the fluffy stuff; it’s the gritty, honest work of looking at your life and your very real limitations and making tough choices. It’s me knowing I’ve been struggling and saying, “Right, I can do this and this, but that other thing will absolutely have to wait.”
Have I been doing it perfectly? Of course not. I’ve definitely not been taking enough breaks from my screen, and I know I need to get out for more fresh air tomorrow. But the intention is there. It’s a practice, not a perfect performance. It’s about prioritising my own wellbeing so that I have enough in the tank to be a present parent and a functioning human being.
Creating a Safe Bubble (And Knowing When to Step Out)
One of the most noticeable things I’ve done this week is pull away a little, socially. I’ve retreated into a bit of a bubble, keeping interactions low-key and my world very small. And that’s okay. It’s a necessary defence mechanism.
When your nervous system is shot to bits, retreating is a way of reducing the amount of incoming data. It’s a shutdown on a larger scale—a way to turn down the volume of the world so your internal systems have a chance to reboot. It’s not about being anti-social; it’s about survival.
And whilst I know I need this quiet space to heal, I’m also mindful that I don’t want it to continue for too long. Isolation can be a comforting blanket, but it can also become a cage if you let it. For now, though, the bubble is my friend. It’s my charging station.
A Little Extra Help: My Experience with CBD
Another tool I’ve brought back into my routine is CBD oil. I’ve taken it on and off over the years, and I’m always reminded of how much it helps when I’m feeling this frayed.
For me, it’s not a magic cure, but it just… eases things. It feels like it takes the sharp, jagged edges off my anxiety and helps me manage the sensory static. I just take a small amount of oil under my tongue, and it provides a subtle but noticeable sense of calm that supports all the other work I’m doing. It helps me to find that quiet centre, making it that little bit easier to be deliberate and mindful in my recovery.
The journey back from the brink of burnout is slow, and it’s certainly not linear. But it’s happening. It’s in every task I decide to postpone, every quiet moment I claim for myself, and every small, supportive measure I take. It’s the gentle art of refilling the spoon drawer, one teaspoon at a time.
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