Rest vs. Isolation: When Recovery Becomes Disconnection
1. Rest Isn’t Always Restful
Rest is supposed to bring relief. It is supposed to be enjoyable, even pleasurable. But sometimes, it feels like fading.
I used to think I was just resting — pulling back to recover, to breathe, to stop performing. But in truth, I was disappearing. Slowly. Silently.
At first, it felt like protection. Hiding myself away from judgment, from anxiety, from the fear of being found out — by people who often don’t even realize the damage they cause.
But there’s a line. And when I cross it, what I’m doing isn’t resting anymore. It’s isolating. It's falling straight into the deep dark void.
And isolation, in the long run, only deepens and sharpens the pain.
It’s a cruel kind of paradox for someone autistic. I need time alone — real time, deep time — to regulate, to recover, to exist. And yet, like everyone else, I still need connection. Still need to feel seen, to be understood.
Sometimes I wonder if rest and loneliness have been wearing the same mask.
2. The Difference Between Solitude and Loneliness
Solitude and loneliness aren’t the same — but they share a border so thin, so common, you often don’t know you’ve crossed it until you’re already on the other side.
Solitude is chosen. It’s quiet on your own terms. It’s putting the world on mute so you can hear yourself again. It’s not just peaceful — it’s necessary. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that fully charges my batteries.
But loneliness… that’s a different beast entirely. It’s not sought out — it slinks in quietly, a seedy character dressed as silence. It’s the uninvited guest who crashes your party and stays too long. It’s being unseen for so long you start to wonder if you were ever visible in the first place.
It’s a stillness that turns heavy. That stops feeling like rest and starts feeling like absence — like being erased in real time. Like making plans with friends, leaving early because of scheduling, and never reconnecting. Not because they meant to exclude you — but because they forgot you were part of it at all. Or because you misunderstood the vague “We’re all going to a show” as a passing comment, not a genuine invitation. And so you don’t go. And then they do — without you.
People often assume autistic people are loners. That we prefer being alone. And yes — we need space. We crave silence. We reach breaking points in crowds long before others even feel a draft. Overstimulation doesn’t just overwhelm — it cuts. It hurts. It can feel like actual pain in the body.
But needing solitude is not the same as being immune to loneliness. In fact, many of us feel it more intensely — because we’ve spent so much of our lives misunderstood, misread, or completely unseen.
For me, loneliness often grows out of moments I don’t mean to create: Forgetting to reply to a text. Missing a call. Canceling plans on an overwhelming day. And then watching relationships fray because others think I don’t care — even though I’ve poured my soul into those connections.
It doesn’t take long before you begin to withdraw on purpose. Not because you want to disappear, but because it starts to feel inevitable. What’s the point, you think. This is what always happens. This is who I always become.
And just like that, solitude becomes loneliness. Solitude is how we recover. Loneliness is what happens when we’re left behind while we do.
3. Why We Disappear
We don’t disappear because we don’t care. We disappear because staying present takes more than we have left to give. Because our last spoon from our drawer was used yesterday and the dishes still need to be done.
Sometimes it’s sensory overload — lights too bright, sounds too sharp, voices layered over voices until your own thoughts scatter.
Sometimes it’s emotional noise — too many unspoken expectations, too much pressure to perform politeness, to smile, to reassure others that you're okay even when you’re unraveling.
And sometimes… it’s grief. Grief for how often connection has ended in misunderstanding. Grief for how many times you've said yes and regretted it — or said no and paid for it anyway.
So we pull away. Not out of malice. Not to punish. But to protect.
Because when you’ve been burned by misreading a room, misjudging an invitation, or missing a social cue by half a beat — you start to play it safe. You start to assume silence is safer than risking another social bruise.
And the truth is, explaining this is its own kind of labor. Trying to make people understand why you’re quiet, why you cancelled, why you need recovery time — it takes effort you don’t always have. Sometimes you get so overwhelmed in your own body your thoughts cannot connect with your mouth to even mutter a sound. It’s like being paralyzed suddenly. Screaming out loud with all your might in your head, but the sound unable to vocalize so you are not saved from your doom. You perish.
So you skip the explaining. You start to try and reach out less. And the distance grows. The once small crack in the ground is now a fissure greater than the Grand Canyon.
4. When Isolation Stops Helping
At first, the quiet feels like bliss, like magical healing waters surrounding you. Floating in a void of calm and warmness. No demands. No noise. No bright lights. No explaining. Just you, finally alone, breathing in the stillness like medicine.
But if you stay in that stillness too long, something shifts. The silence that once soothed you starts to feel… heavy. Like air gone stale. It starts to smell like the air in the cargo holds of an old ship sailing across the seas. Like a room that used to be peaceful but now feels like a cage.
There’s no alarm. No big turning point. No aha moment. Just a slow realization: you’re not recharging anymore. You’re stalling. You’re inert.
You stop reaching out. Not just because you’re tired — but because you’re afraid no one wants to hear from you anymore. You start to think that nobody enjoys your company at all.
Because the longer you’ve been quiet, the harder it feels to break the silence. And maybe… maybe part of you believes you don’t deserve to be remembered. Maybe you truly don’t believe you deserve a seat at the same table as everyone else.
That’s the cruel trick of burnout and withdrawal — they convince you the distance was your choice, even when it wasn’t. They whisper that you're the reason you're alone. That you let everyone drift. That you're too much when you're present, and too nothing when you're gone. And you start to believe it. You start to live it, then you are smack dab in its reality. The reality that I really am now alone.
5. Reaching Back Out (Without Guilt)
There comes a point — quietly, slowly — when you realize you want to come back. You start to feel like a baby penguin separated from the group, from your support, from your lifeline. Not to everything. Not to everyone. But to something that reminds you you’re still human. Still tethered. Still wanted.
Reaching out again is hard. Not because you don’t care — but because the silence has grown teeth. You worry too much time has passed. You wonder if they’ve already written you off. You wonder if anybody else even remembers you or ever has a passing thought about you. You fear the message won’t land, or worse — it will be met with silence.
But here’s what I’m learning: Reconnection doesn’t have to be loud. It doesn’t have to be grand. It can start with a simple message: “Hey. I’ve been lost at sea for some time now. Please understand it was never anything personal. I was on a journey, one that needed to be taken for my life to keep going in a loving way.”
You don’t need to explain everything. You don’t owe anyone your full story to deserve a moment of warmth. And if you’ve pulled away from someone who really saw you — chances are, they’ve just been waiting for you to come back in whatever way you can.
Reaching back out doesn’t erase the isolation. But it interrupts it. It cracks open the door. And sometimes, that crack is all you need. It may even be that your connections you had before maybe aren’t the right ones for you. Sometimes you just need to open the door so a new stranger or two can walk in. Maybe they will accept you as you are, without the mask they never even knew.
I’m learning to extend my hand, even if it shakes. Lord, it shakes. Even if my message comes days late. They will — not intentionally, but it happens. People who are true friends and do enjoy your company will understand. Even if I have no words, just a wave. Because connection doesn’t demand perfection. It just needs a pulse to breathe life back in.
6. Rest Is the Pause, Not the Exit
There was a time I thought stepping away meant I was just tossing caution to the wind and giving up. That needing a break made me weak — or worse (and often the place I settle): selfish. That disappearing, even briefly, would make the people around me stop looking, stop caring, stop waiting.
But I’m starting to understand: Rest isn’t the end of the story. It’s not the falling action, or the credits rolling. It’s the pause — the inhale between chapters. It’s what finally allows you to breathe easily again.
Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s lonely. Sometimes it feels like fading away into the void. But it’s not failure. It’s not giving up.
It’s the nervous system pleading for peace. It’s the soul asking to be held gently — not judged, not pushed, not “fixed.” Just heard and held. It’s survival learning to look like slowing down instead of shutting down.
Rest is where we repair what no one sees — the frayed wires, the burnt spark plugs. It’s where the fractures start to knit, the fire starts to calm, the self starts to return.
And when we’re ready — when the moment feels safe enough, and the breath feels deep enough — we begin again. Not from scratch. But from center.
So if you’re in that place now — the heavy quiet, the aching stillness — I hope you remember this, as I’m sure trying to learn this lesson myself:
You haven’t disappeared. You haven’t failed. You’re not gone. You’re resting.
And that is not weakness. That is wisdom. That is what keeps you going — and allows you to come back as your best, truest self.
If this resonated with you: You’re not alone. The path from isolation back into connection can be hard—but it’s easier with community. If you’d like to share your own experiences, thoughts, or simply be heard, I’d love to hear from you. You can reach out here, or subscribe for more reflections like this. We heal in quiet ways, but we grow together.
Written by Erik — a late-diagnosed autistic adult navigating life, recovery, and unmasking with honesty and heart.
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