A few weeks ago, I came across a social media post that’s been sitting with me ever since.
It talked about neurodivergent people having “overactive nervous systems” — and framed that as something we should accept, even lean into.
That we can’t really rest, that we’re wired to keep going, and that’s just how it is.
And I understand where that perspective comes from. But I also feel really uneasy about it. Because there’s a difference between:
- this is how my brain works
and - this is a dysregulated state my body has learned to live in
And those two things get blurred far too often.
For a long time, I lived in that constant push.
From the outside, things looked fine.
Work was getting done. Life was moving forward.
But underneath it, my system was constantly running hot. More times than not, I felt like a shaken soda bottle with the cap on tight, threatening to pop at any moment.
I didn’t really stop — I just had to keep going because if I allowed myself to stop, hell, I might never get up again. And I didn’t really rest. When I tried to, it didn’t feel restorative. I felt more like a non-funcitonal lump just lying there.
Eventually, that started to show up in ways I couldn’t ignore or hide anymore.
I was stuttering. Struggling to reply to emails or messages, or even pick up the phone.
I’d sit at my desk, red-eyed, washed out and looking completely exhausted — and people started commenting on it, often.
Holding a conversation became difficult.
There were times I would leave the office where I was without saying goodbye, because I just couldn’t keep going.
At home, the sensory overwhelm would hit — lights off, silence, needing everything to stop.
There were moments where I couldn’t find words or speak properly – and sometimes, at all.
My body and brain felt like they were buzzing and shutting down at the same time. Lying there, completely spent — not able to sleep, but not able to do anything else either.
Even now, this still happens sometimes. Yesterday was one of those days.
A mix of a few social weeks, hormones, and having a bit more energy than usual — so I pushed a little further than I probably should have.
That line isn’t always obvious in the moment. The difference now is that I recognise it, I understand what’s happening sooner, and I know what I need to do next.
“I can’t rest” — but is that the whole story?
There’s a narrative that comes up a lot in this space:
“I can’t rest.”
“My brain won’t switch off.”
“I need to stay busy.”
“It’s just the way it is because of [dopamine, my brain, my ‘ADHD, and so on].”
And yes — that can be true.
But it’s not the full story.
Because rest isn’t something that just happens automatically for a lot of us. It’s not intuitive. And it’s not always comfortable.
Rest is a skill, and learning to regulate, restore and reset are something we can learn, in ways that actually work for us.
Not by forcing ourselves into rigid routines or idealised versions of “self-care”, but by understanding our own patterns, our own limits, and what actually helps our system settle.
For me, that has looked like:
- learning to take breaks before I hit the wall
- building in transitions between things — even if that’s just five minutes to sit in the car before walking into the house, or a walk around the block between work and dinner
- capacity planning my weeks and months
- finding forms of rest that actually feel accessible (not just what I think I “should” be doing), such as lying on my bed in a dark room, surrounding myself with soft pillows, covering mysel with a fluffy blanket, and slowly digesting a good book (probably a murder-mystery, which I find oh so comorting!
- establishing and reinforcing strong boundaries, even when it means passing up on something I’d really like to do or someone I’d love to catch up with!
- embracing my quirky interests, such as puzzles and off-the-wall animations and series that amuse and soothe me
- learning to properly unplug – with enforced tech curfews and a ‘no social media on my phone’ rule
- working with my trauma-informed and neuro-affirming psychologist to help identify and adjust certain patterns, like my tendency to overwork
- and recognising the early signs that I’m pushing past my capacity – and having a plan about what to do (so I don’t have to rely on my brain to solve problems and make decisions when there)
It’s not perfect, and it takes ongoing work and mixing things up every now and again.
And it certainly doesn’t mean I never overdo it. But it’s different, and it’s more sustainable in a way that constant pushing never was.
I also want to say this, because it matters
There is no single way to experience autism or ADHD.
The “we all…” statements — even when well-intentioned — can flatten a lot of nuance, and can leave people feeling like they don’t quite fit.
I felt this myself when I was first diagnosed with ADHD. At first, there was a sense of relief — like I’d found something that finally made sense. But over time, as I saw more of the messaging and experiences being shared, I started to feel a disconnect. It didn’t always reflect how I experienced things. And for a while, that left me feeling like I didn’t quite belong there either.
(And of course, later I came to understand there was more to my own neurotype as well.)
Our nervous systems, our capacity, our patterns are shaped not just by neurotype, but by life experiences, environments, expectations, and often trauma.
So when we talk about things like rest, regulation, or burnout — it’s not one-size-fits-all.
What I do know is this
We don’t need to earn rest by burning ourselves out first. And we don’t have to accept constant dysregulation as our baseline.
We are all allowed to build ways of living and working that are more sustainable — even if that takes time, experimentation, and unlearning along the way.
