03 Jun 2025 5 min read

Rest Is Not Laziness: Redefining Recovery for Autistic Adults

1. The Weight of Doing Nothing

There’s a peculiar kind of heaviness that settles over me when I try to rest.

Not the weight of my body sinking into a couch after a long day — but the nuclear reactor that starts very intensely in the middle of my chest and eventually spreads to every extremity in my body, causing a very uncomfortable pins-and-needles feeling all over.

It’s not peace. It’s pressure. It’s sandpaper grinding on my skin — and guilt. A buzzing in the back of my brain insisting I’m wasting time, falling behind, being lazy.

Even now, when I know better, when I need rest — that old voice still shows up:

You should be doing something.
You don’t deserve a break yet.
Other people are tired too — and they’re still working.
You don’t matter any more than the next person.
Or — more honestly — they matter more.

It’s hard to quiet those thoughts, especially after a lifetime of masking, of trying to prove I’m capable — even when I’m not okay. Harder still when rest feels like a luxury instead of a necessity.

But burnout doesn’t go away by pushing through. Pushing through only cements your spot in that dark closet for an infinite amount of time.

With rest, it heals — slowly — but eventually. And I’m learning that stillness isn’t laziness. It’s survival.

2. The Culture of Overwork

We live in a world that worships exhaustion.

Where being in before the sun comes up, and out long after it sets, is considered noble.

Where “busy” is a badge and burnout is just the cost of belonging.

Where slowing down feels like stepping out of rhythm with modern life — just a cog in the machine, easily replaced if you falter.

But for autistic people, it’s not just culture. It’s survival strategy.

We don’t just wake up tired — we wake up in a world that was never built for our bodies, our pace, our way of thinking.

So those of us who can, we mask. We memorize. We practice conversations in the mirror. We mimic — hoping we look like a sheep in the herd instead of a lone wolf.

We contort ourselves into shapes we hope will pass.

And when we succeed, no one sees the toll. They may even accept us in — never fully, but just enough to keep the voices going.

They just see someone who seems “fine.”

They call it high-functioning.
They call it capable, hardworking, determined.
They call it strong.

But the truth is: what they’re praising is often a person on fire, performing normalcy while burning from the inside out.

Because masking is labor. Emotional, cognitive, physical labor.

And when the weight becomes too much to carry, and we finally slow down — the world doesn’t pause with us.

It says: “You were doing so well.” “We all feel tired.” “Just push through — you got this.”

But I’ve learned — painfully — that pushing through is not perseverance. Sometimes, it’s erasure.

Rest isn’t laziness. It’s repair. It’s the toll the body demands — and like a banker calling in a loan, it will collect.

3. Internalized Ableism and the Fear of Stillness

Somewhere along the way, I absorbed a lie:

That my worth was measured in output.
That I’m only worth what I do today — not what I’ve already done.
That perception is law. Not data. Not reality. Just image.
That rest is earned only after collapse — and there’s always something next.
That being still meant I was falling behind… or worse, falling apart.

I didn’t come to that belief on my own. It was shaped over time — sideways glances, backhanded compliments, subtle praise for pushing through, quiet withdrawal when I didn’t.

By a world that applauds perseverance but has no language for pacing.

So I learned to ignore the signals. To endure the pain — and I won’t mince words, it is pain. The kind I don’t dare show.

I treated pain, overwhelm, and exhaustion as problems to solve instead of warnings to heed.

Even now, when I try to rest, the voice still echoes:

You’re being lazy.
You’re making excuses.
Everyone else is tired too.

It’s not always external shame. Probably more often than not, it’s my own.

A deep, aching guilt that rises the moment I allow myself to stop.

A fear that if I’m not producing, I don’t deserve peace. That I don’t deserve a seat at the table.

But that’s not truth. That’s trauma. Death by a thousand cuts — the cost of surviving in a capitalist world with an autistic mind and soul.

I’m slowly unlearning it. Painfully slowly — like watching Niagara Falls erode the earth while the St. Lawrence chugs toward the Atlantic.

Stillness is not giving up. It’s trusting that I am enough — even when I’m quiet. Even when I’m simply breathing.

4. What Rest Really Is (and Isn’t)

Rest isn’t always a nap. It isn’t a vacation or a perfect morning routine. In my case, vacation often adds to the burnout, not the relief.

It doesn’t have to look like peace to be peace.

Sometimes rest is silence — not because everything is okay, but because I can’t take one more word.

Sometimes it’s lying on the floor in the dark with my eyes closed, not asleep, just… off.

Sometimes it’s canceling plans without twenty apologies.

Sometimes it’s letting the dishes sit, because my body said no more — and I finally listened.

Rest is not absence. It’s presence — with myself, without performance.

And sometimes, rest isn’t still at all. It’s letting myself move in ways that feel like me. Spending time indulging in the things that light me up.

It’s digging into the dirt in the garden. It’s walking among trees. Surfing waves. Playing sports, not for competition — but to come back into my body.

It’s being clumsy and loud and goofy — and not having to apologize for it.

Rest isn’t always quiet. Sometimes, it’s freedom.

5. Learning to Honor Rest

I used to think rest was something I had to earn. That unless I was completely spent, I hadn’t worked hard enough to justify slowing down.

But that belief nearly broke me.

Because when you’ve been running on fumes for years, there is no “earning” rest. There is only collapse. And the body will collect what it’s owed — willingly or not.

I’m learning — slowly, stubbornly — to honor rest before I fall apart. To choose recovery over performance. To see value in presence, not just productivity.

Some days I still hear the guilt whisper:

You didn’t do enough today.
Other people are working through worse.
You’re falling behind.

But I’m starting to answer back:

I did what I could. I listened to my limits. I showed up for myself today — and that matters.

I’m not lazy. I’m not weak. I’m healing.

And no — I haven’t mastered it. But I’m practicing.

6. Permission to Be Still

There’s still a part of me that flinches when I stop.

Even now, after the burnout, after the clarity, after choosing to live more honestly — that reflex still kicks in. The voice that says I haven’t earned stillness.

But I’m beginning to see rest not as a pause from life, but a part of it. A sacred part. A defiant part. A necessary part.

Because I wasn’t born to be a productive machine — I was born to be whole.

So I’m practicing stillness, not as retreat, but as return. To myself. To my body. To the truth that I deserve peace, even if I haven’t ticked all the boxes.

And if you’re reading this — burned out, overwhelmed, trying to justify the need to lie down, to shut off, to disappear for a while — this is your permission, too.

You don’t have to earn your rest. You already have.

If this spoke to you, share it with someone who might need permission to rest, too — or drop a comment. I’d love to hear what rest looks like for you.

Wings Made for Water is a space for late-diagnosed autistic adults and anyone unmasking their true self. Subscribe for more reflections, resources, and real talk.