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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.
Showering? Exhausting.
Walking? Exhausting.
Thinking? Exhausting.
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.
BellaZinga.Blog 