Full disclosure: I was emotionally exhausted and wanted to capture this while it was still fresh, so I stream-of-consciousness dumped everything into ChatGPT and had it help organize my thoughts into a readable post. Usually I write the majority of my content myself and use “Chatty” more for editing, structure, brainstorming, and helping my ADHD brain untangle itself.
There are moments, as a parent of a struggling neurodivergent teen, where you suddenly realize your child has been growing the entire time…just not always in the ways society measures.
Kiddo had her first cardiac stress test today. Which sounds adorable if you phrase it like, “baby’s first stress test,” but apparently cardiology frowns upon that kind of humour.
She came home exhausted. Pale. Achy. Just completely wiped.
Earlier in the day I’d gently suggested maybe she crack open her math book for a bit. Later, when I went downstairs to check on her, there was still no math happening.
Instead, she looked at me with this sad little face and said, “Mom…am I a failure? I want to do school and math. I just can’t.”
And honestly? That sentence punched me directly in the soul.
Because I think a lot of neurodivergent kids eventually start confusing “I can’t right now” with “I am bad.”
And the truth is, this kid has been fighting through exhaustion, chronic nausea, dizzy spells, suspected POTS symptoms, executive dysfunction, anxiety, burnout…all while still trying to figure out who she is as a person.
So I told her there was no pressure. That she was sick. That struggling doesn’t make her a failure.
Then somehow, as conversations with teenagers do, we went from discussing math avoidance to tattoos.
Naturally.
She pulled up her tattoo board. We debated what I’d theoretically allow when she turns sixteen. I joked that my bf offered to take her for her first tattoo one day, which honestly feels both sweet and mildly illegal somehow.
At one point she showed me a dragon tattoo, and I said something about spirit animals.
Friends.
When I tell you this child immediately launched into a nuanced discussion about closed Indigenous spiritual practices, colonialism, cultural appropriation, and why my Gen-X “we’re all spiritually connected” worldview maybe wasn’t the progressive masterpiece I thought it was…
Humbled. Absolutely humbled.
At one point I found myself defending things I believed twenty years ago while my chronically ill teenager calmly cross-examined me from under a blanket nest.
We somehow ended up discussing Voodoo, Asatru, comparative religion, archetypes throughout human history, and whether belief systems are universal human attempts to create meaning out of chaos.
You know. Standard post-cardiac-stress-test mother-daughter bonding.
And here’s the thing: She won the debate. (Who am I kidding, she wins every debate!)
Not because I suddenly agreed with every point she made, but because she was thoughtful. Informed. Curious. Nuanced. Passionate.
And because midway through the conversation, when I made a facial expression she didn’t like, she calmly said: “I don’t like when you make that face. It feels condescending.”
No meltdown. No screaming. No escalation.
Just direct communication.
Then she told me she was proud of herself for setting a boundary calmly.
And I realized I was proud too.
Because when your kid is struggling with school, mental health, chronic illness, burnout, executive functioning, or just surviving day to day…it’s very easy to start measuring their worth by productivity.
Did they do math? Did they clean their room? Did they attend class? Did they hand things in? Did they function?
Meanwhile, your child is quietly becoming.
Becoming thoughtful. Becoming articulate. Becoming emotionally aware. Becoming someone capable of critical thinking and self-reflection and ethical nuance.
Those things count too.
Sometimes I think parents like me get so focused on visible milestones that we miss the invisible ones happening right in front of us.
Tonight, my daughter didn’t do math.
But she also politely dismantled her Gen-X mother’s spiritual universalism after a cardiac stress test.
And honestly? That feels like development too.
I’d love to hear about a moment recently where your child surprised you, connected with you, or reminded you who they’re becoming underneath the struggle.
AI tools were used to assist with editing, organization, and some visual elements in this post.
I hear my friends talk about how good they feel when they wake up after a solid night’s sleep.
Refreshed. Clear-headed. Ready for the day.
And I always wonder… What does that actually feel like?
Because I can count on one hand the mornings in my life where I’ve woken up feeling good.
Most mornings are a battle.
A battle against exhaustion. Pain. Anxiety.
Often my body feels like it’s been hit by a truck. I wake up feeling just as tired—sometimes more tired—than when I went to bed.
That “refreshed” feeling people talk about?
Honestly? Fuck off with that.
Because at this moment it feels like a taunt. One more thing I’m apparently not allowed to have in this lifetime.
And in a sea of difficult mornings, this one hit monsoon proportions.
Even my eyes hurt. The light was too much. My head, neck, and shoulders ached. My hands were claws because the flexors and extensors seemed to be at war with each other. My lower back was crying. My hip bones? Don’t even get me started.
It took forever just to sit up.
And yes, I used every bullshit motivational phrase in my fairly sturdy arsenal. (Add irritability to my list of symptoms). Thirty years of coaching gives you a decent toolbox.
“You can do this.” “One small step.” “Just sit up first.”
But no amount of self-talk made it easier.
Because this wasn’t just a mindset problem.
I’ve Been “Tired” Since I Was 16
I was first diagnosed with depression at 16 or 17.
At the time, my mom dragged me to the doctor because I was so tired I could barely walk up a flight of stairs.
And before anyone assumes I was out of shape—I was a competitive figure skater training 15–20 hours a week. I was in peak physical condition.
Still couldn’t climb the damn stairs.
Over the years, I’ve had depressive episodes. Some clearly tied to life events.
A death in university. Failing a course twice. Leaving an abusive partner in the middle of the night in a city where I knew no one. Infertility. Fertility drugs that I was told wouldn’t affect me, even though I warned the doctor I’m sensitive. (Spoiler: they did.)
After a concussion on the ice while pregnant (yes, I was teaching, don’t judge), then childbirth, things shifted again.
Sleep deprivation. Single parenting. Starting over in a new town. Dog-eat-dog coaching culture.
And then the body pain.
Full-body soreness that didn’t feel like training soreness. Hands clawed in the morning. Joints feeling fused together. Like I was wearing a suit of armor.
There were days the pain was so intense my teeth would chatter.
Eventually, after being dismissed more than once, a sports medicine doctor looked at me and said, “This isn’t a sports injury.”
I said, “I think it’s fibromyalgia.”
She agreed. Referred me to a rheumatologist. I had a diagnosis within a week.
Relief. Validation. Finally.
There are good doctors out there.
But as the parent of a neurodivergent kid in a small town? My faith still wobbles.
So Why Am I Questioning Everything Again?
Because now I’m 57.
And I’ve recently acknowledged something else about myself.
I’m autistic.
Late to the party. But here nonetheless.
I’m self-identified. Not formally diagnosed.
And before anyone clutches their pearls — self-identification is valid in a community where many women can’t access assessment due to cost, waitlists, geography, or years of being dismissed. I’ve done the reading. The reflecting. The pattern-matching across my entire life. This isn’t impulsive. It’s informed.
And once you look at your life through that lens? It’s like the whole timeline rearranges itself.
Everything feels hard again.
Showering is hard. Speaking and formulating thoughts is hard. Light is too much. Headaches. Nausea. Brain fog. Overwhelm from the smallest tasks.
I know. I know. There are a million other things this could be.
And I’ve been checked.
But the more I read about autistic burnout—especially in adult women—the more I feel that uncomfortable little a-ha click in my chest.
What if I haven’t just been depressed?
What if I haven’t just had fibromyalgia?
What if I’ve also been burning out my nervous system for decades?
So What Is Autistic Burnout?
Autistic burnout isn’t just being tired.
It’s not “I had a big week.” It’s not “I need a vacation.” It’s not regular workplace burnout.
Researchers describe autistic burnout as chronic exhaustion, reduced functioning, and decreased tolerance to sensory input following long-term stress and unmet support needs (Raymaker et al., 2020; AIDE Canada Toolkit).
Translation?
Your nervous system has been running on high alert for so long that it just… stops cooperating.
Autistic adults actually named burnout first. Researchers later studied it and confirmed the pattern: long-term stress, masking, unmet support needs — and eventually a collapse in capacity (Raymaker et al., 2020).
Burnout isn’t just exhaustion.
It can look like:
Brain fog
Trouble speaking or finding words
Executive dysfunction that wasn’t this bad before
Sensory overload — light, sound, touch suddenly feel like too much
Loss of skills you used to manage
Increased anxiety
Shutdown
It doesn’t always look like sadness.
Sometimes it looks like: “I can’t.”
And unlike regular stress, it doesn’t necessarily get better with a good weekend. It can last months, especially if the demands don’t change.
Burnout vs Depression vs Fibromyalgia: Why This Is So Damn Confusing
Burnout can look like depression. Depression can look like burnout. Fibromyalgia overlaps with both.
Depression often includes:
Persistent low mood
Loss of interest or pleasure
Hopelessness
Emotional heaviness
Autistic burnout doesn’t always include that deep hopelessness.
It’s more like: “My system is overloaded. I don’t have capacity.”
Fibromyalgia brings another layer:
Widespread pain
Tender points
Non-restorative sleep
Morning stiffness
Flare cycles tied to stress
Studies show elevated rates of depression, chronic fatigue, and fibromyalgia among autistic adults, suggesting these conditions may overlap rather than exist in isolation (Altogether Autism; More Good Days; PMC8992921).
Which means it might not be either/or.
It might be all of it.
A nervous system under chronic stress can express itself in mood. In pain. In shutdown. In exhaustion.
Bodies are messy like that.
A Kitchen Table Self-Check
(Not a diagnosis. Just curiosity.)
I am not diagnosing anyone. Hell, I’m barely diagnosing myself.
But here’s a gentle gut-check to help me (and you) sort through this fog.
You might lean toward autistic burnout if…
You feel chronically exhausted in a way that rest doesn’t fully fix.
Small tasks feel disproportionately hard.
Sensory things suddenly feel unbearable.
You’ve “lost” skills you used to manage.
Reducing demands helps more than motivational self-talk does.
You feel overloaded, not necessarily hopeless.
You might lean toward depression if…
There’s a persistent low mood.
Things that once brought joy feel flat.
You feel hopeless or numb.
The exhaustion feels emotionally heavy.
You might lean toward fibromyalgia if…
Widespread pain is central.
Morning stiffness is intense.
Sleep doesn’t restore you.
Your body feels like it’s wearing armor.
And here’s the inconvenient truth:
It might not be just one thing.
The Cost of Being “Normal” for Decades
If I’m autistic, then I’ve been adapting to a world not built for me for 57 years.
That’s a long time to hold your breath.
Masking works. Until it doesn’t.
Research on late-diagnosed autistic women highlights decades of compensating and masking—often at significant psychological and physical cost (UCLA Health; Neurodiversity Centre).
Masking isn’t just social camouflage.
It’s energy expenditure.
And energy is finite.
Emerging discussions around autism and menopause suggest sensory sensitivity and burnout can intensify in midlife as hormonal shifts affect nervous system regulation (ScienceWorks Health).
So maybe this isn’t random.
Maybe this is cumulative.
Maybe my nervous system didn’t fail me.
Maybe it finally told the truth.
Maybe I Was Never Just Depressed
I was 16 and couldn’t climb stairs.
I was diagnosed with depression.
I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.
And maybe those diagnoses were accurate.
But maybe they weren’t the whole story.
Because when I look back now—as a 57-year-old, self-identified autistic woman—I don’t just see sadness.
I see decades of adaptation.
Of performing competence. Of tolerating sensory overload. Of managing social politics. Of caregiving without pause.
Maybe the exhaustion isn’t weakness.
Maybe the armor-body mornings aren’t laziness.
Maybe the overwhelm isn’t a character flaw.
Maybe it’s what happens when you run a brain and body in survival mode for half a century.
I don’t have a clean answer.
It might be depression. It might be fibromyalgia. It might be autistic burnout.
It might be all of it.
But if I’ve been interpreting neurological overload as personal failure for decades?
That story ends here.
And if you’re 40. Or 50. Or 57. And you’re waking up feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck—physically, mentally, emotionally—maybe you’re not broken either.
Maybe you’re overloaded.
And maybe the question isn’t, “What’s wrong with me?”
Maybe it’s, “What have I been carrying for far too long?”
Sources & Further Reading
Raymaker, D. et al. (2020). “Having All of Your Internal Resources Exhausted Beyond Measure”: Autistic Burnout. AIDE Canada. Autistic Burnout Toolkit. UCLA Health. Understanding Undiagnosed Autism in Adult Females. Neurodiversity Centre. Masking and Burnout in Autistic Women. Neurodivergent Insights. Autistic Burnout vs Depression. Attwood & Garnett Events. How Depression May Present Differently in Autistic People. Altogether Autism NZ. Chronic Fatigue, Fibromyalgia and Autism. PMC8992921. ScienceWorks Health. Autism and Menopause.
Creating a symbol for neurodiversity, inspired by my daughter’s journey, led me through a thoughtful exploration of existing images. I began with a butterfly, symbolizing transformation, with one wing designed in fragmented, multicoloured puzzle pieces. This was meant to depict complexity and growth, yet I soon learned that the puzzle piece can feel alienating to many in the neurodivergent community.
Often, it implies that autism or other conditions need to be “solved” or “completed,” rather than accepted and celebrated as they are. This symbolism didn’t align with the message I wanted to send about inclusion and understanding.
Shifting from the butterfly, I explored the phoenix—a powerful symbol of resilience and renewal. The phoenix resonated deeply, as it reflected the strength I see in my daughter, who continually rises from difficult days of sensory overload or social challenges.
This symbol also speaks to autistic burnout, a significant experience for many, where the demands of navigating a neurotypical world can lead to deep exhaustion that goes beyond typical stress.
Still, as powerful as the phoenix is, it felt incomplete. I wanted a symbol that reflected not only individual resilience but also the importance of community and support. And that’s when the idea of the tree took root.
Embracing the Tree as a Symbol of Growth and Community
As I moved away from previous designs, the image of a tree began to emerge as a powerful symbol for neurodiversity—a representation of both individuality and interdependence. Trees thrive through a deep network of roots, drawing nourishment from the soil and connecting to the surrounding ecosystem.
Similarly, neurodivergent individuals often find strength and stability in their support systems, whether it’s family, friends, community resources, or even advocacy groups. These “roots” provide essential nutrients for growth, resilience, and flourishing in a world that can sometimes be challenging to navigate.
Above the surface, the tree’s branches and leaves capture a beautiful diversity. But just like in neurodivergent conditions, there’s so much happening beneath that others may never see.
This idea of “what lies beneath” is especially resonant in conditions like ADHD, where visible behaviours are just the tip of the iceberg. Many underlying traits and challenges—like anxiety, hyperfocus, or emotional sensitivity—often remain hidden yet play a significant role in daily experiences.
By choosing a tree as the design’s core, I wanted to honour both the visible and invisible aspects of neurodiversity, celebrating the unique strengths and needs of each individual leaf while also recognizing the collective strength of the community.
Each branch represents a unique path, each leaf a unique person, and together, they create a vibrant, interconnected network that provides strength, shade, and beauty for everyone involved.
The Tree’s Colors and Leaves: Celebrating Individuality
One of the most meaningful aspects of the tree design lies in its leaves, each representing a unique individual within the neurodivergent community. Neurodiversity is beautifully varied—each person presents differently, with unique strengths, challenges, and characteristics.
Much like leaves on a tree, these traits may look different on the surface but are equally essential to the whole. Whether it’s the vibrant creativity often found in ADHD, the intense focus common in autism, or the resilience shared by many neurodivergent individuals, each leaf brings its own beauty to the tree.
This diversity reflects the need for neurodiversity acceptance, where every person’s strengths and differences are valued.
Beyond individual expression, the tree represents a connected network—a reminder that neurodiversity is not isolated but part of an inclusive ecosystem that relies on neurodivergent individuals and neurotypical allies to flourish.
Just as trees thrive within a larger forest, the neurodivergent community finds strength in support and inclusion, creating spaces where every person can thrive. By acknowledging that we all have different needs and contributions, we can build a network that truly values and respects each person’s place in the community.
Advocacy Through Fashion: Start Conversations with What You Wear
Fashion has incredible power—it can make a statement, spark curiosity, and invite conversation. Wearing clothing that advocates for neurodiversity is more than just a style choice; it’s a way to openly support and celebrate the neurodivergent community.
A T-shirt, for instance, becomes a canvas for expressing neurodiversity acceptance, sharing the message that autism, ADHD, and other conditions deserve understanding and respect. Whether at the grocery store, on a school run, or at a community event, these designs serve as conversation starters, opening the door for people to ask questions and learn more about neurodiversity.
Beyond simply promoting awareness, wearing these symbols can foster a sense of solidarity. It’s a way for neurotypical allies, parents, friends, and neurodivergent individuals themselves to visibly show their support.
This public expression can be incredibly powerful—wearing something that says, “I see you, I understand, and I stand with you,” helps create a more inclusive and empathetic world. Fashion becomes an ally in the journey toward neurodiversity acceptance, breaking down barriers and encouraging us all to learn and grow together.
If you’re ready to make a statement and advocate for a more inclusive world, consider exploring BellaZinga’s Neurodiversity T-Shirt. By wearing designs that celebrate neurodiversity, you’re not just putting on a T-shirt—you’re taking part in a movement toward understanding, acceptance, and connection.
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