(My AuDHD) Burnout Brain: Why “Just Rest” Advice Doesn’t Work for Me
How many times have you been told, “Just rest?” Like it’s that simple. Like those two words are a universal cure-all for exhaustion, overwhelm, and the relentless background noise of a brain that refuses to shut up. Like you haven’t tried curling up on the couch with nothing but a blanket, a sweet cuddly pup (or 3), and Season 1, Episode 15 of Little House on the Prairie to keep you company. Just me?
When someone tells me to “just rest,” here’s what actually happens:
I sit down with the intention of relaxing.
Within three minutes, my brain has pulled up thirty-seven unfinished projects, the state of my Amazon ads, and whether I remembered to take the chicken out of the freezer.
Five minutes in, I’m wondering if this is the perfect time to start a new project I’ll inevitably abandon by Friday.
By the ten-minute mark, I’ve given up and started reorganizing pens (I heart pens), scrubbing the sink, or switching to YouTube videos about productivity hacks that I will never, ever implement.
So yeah—that’s not rest. That’s AuDHD burnout brain in action. Mine anyway.
The Myth of Rest as a Cure-All
The problem isn’t the advice-givers. I know they mean well. It’s just that “rest” gets tossed around like it’s one universal prescription.
Feeling tired? Rest.
Feeling fried? Rest.
Feeling like your very soul is a pile of ashes? Rest.
But here’s the deal: burnout brain doesn’t interpret rest as recovery. Burnout brain interprets rest as failure. Lazy. Dangerous. A threat to my ability to keep all the plates spinning. Proof that everything I was told about myself as a child/young adult is true. Lazy. Spoiled. Lazy. Messy. Lazy. Lazy. Lazy,
And that, ironically, is how burnout gets even worse. Because instead of recovering, I spend my “rest time” running mental marathons and then guilt-tripping myself for not being better at resting. (Imagine being bad at resting. Me. Hi. That’s who I am as a person.)
Why “Just Rest” Doesn’t Land for Me
My nervous system (and brain) don’t have off switches. When I stop moving, it doesn’t feel like calm—it feels like panic. Stillness sets off alarms. Rest is not peace, it’s danger.
I hyperfocus my way into exhaustion. I don’t even realize I’m heading toward burnout until I’m already there. One day I’m fine, the next I’m face-down on the carpet wondering why gravity feels so aggressive.
My wiring makes it harder. Dyspraxia means my body doesn’t cooperate. Autism means my sensory system is fried. PDA means the second someone tells me to rest, I’m automatically incapable of doing it. Add all that together and “just rest” becomes “just impossible.”
Rest doesn’t look restful to other people. My nervous system doesn’t calm down with naps and spa days. It calms down with art supplies, long writing sessions, or cleaning out a drawer. Someone else looks at that and says, “you’re not resting.” But to me, that is rest. To ME, cooking dinner for my family the same day I had major surgery (true story) is rest. That’s not humble bragging. That’s (sad?) fact.
The guilt spiral is real. If I do manage to nap or binge-watch Netflix, I wake up feeling worse because I wasn’t “productive.” Burnout brain is great at turning recovery into yet another failure.
What (My) Burnout Brain Actually Needs
Here’s what I’ve figured out after YEARS of crashing and crawling out again:
Rest ≠ stillness. Rest can mean switching gears, not going limp. For me, that usually looks like painting, making something with my hands, or walking around a thrift store with no list, just whatever catches my eye.
Boundaries are a form of rest. Saying “no” to one more thing is more restorative than any bubble bath. Canceling an obligation is rest. Turning off notifications is rest. Ignoring social media completely is rest.
Micro-breaks matter more than marathons. Fifteen minutes of doodling or dusting and vacuuming a room can do more for me than an entire weekend of “forced relaxation.”
External permission helps. If someone else says, “shut your laptop, you’re done,” I can do it. Weirdly. (Although admittedly I will probably not be very nice to said someone else, but we’ve worked out this system ahead of time. Ask Bud.) If I try to give myself that same instruction? My brain files it under “nice idea, but no.”
Rest needs to be reframed as maintenance. I’ve stopped calling it rest altogether. Now it’s just “doing what I truly WANT to do in the moment.” For some reason, my brain accepts that language better.
The Lies I Tell Myself
Burnout brain is sneaky. It feeds me lines like:
“You’ll feel better if you just finish one more thing. And then one more. And one more.”
“You don’t deserve rest until everything else is done.”
“Other people are working harder. You should be, too.”
“If you stop now, you’ll lose your momentum forever.”
And I fall for it. Every. Single. Time. Until I hit the wall. Then I’m not “choosing” rest—I’m forced into it because I literally cannot move. That’s not recovery. That’s collapse.
Redefining Rest (Without Wanting to Scream)
I’ve started experimenting with redefining what rest looks like for me. Not what Instagram says (because I’m on a SM hiatus. Again). Not what wellness influencers say. What actually works for my brain:
Sensory resets: noise-canceling headphones OR my favorite music on full blast (like now), dim lighting, candle burning, weighted blanket (or a lap dog), five minutes of silence.
Creative rest: paint smooshing, making collages, writing nonsense in a notebook. (It doesn’t have to be good. It just has to get out.)
Functional rest: doing “boring” chores that let my brain run on autopilot. Folding laundry is surprisingly meditative when you’re fried. So is washing dishes.
Connection rest: talking to the one or two people who don’t drain me (hi S in CA!). Short, safe conversations reset my brain more than a nap ever could.
It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t belong on Pinterest. But it works. And it probably looks different every time.
Basically…
If someone tells you to “just rest,” remember that they mean well, and then do whatever version of “reset” works for you. Because rest isn’t about how it looks—it’s about what it does for your system.
So no, I’m not bad at resting. I just rest differently. On my terms, in my weird ways, in ways that actually refill me instead of making me more anxious.
What does “rest” actually look like for you? I’m truly interested. If it’s bubble baths and naps, I salute you. If it’s spreadsheets and reorganizing your thread collection, welcome to the club.
Follow along on Instagram, TikTok, and LinkedIn for visuals and bite-sized insights from this piece. And if this resonated, share it with someone else who gets it.
Sign up here to receive our newsletter and stay connected!
About the Author
Gal is an autistic artist, late-diagnosed at 49, and the creator of AuRTistic Expressions—a space where neurodivergent truth meets creative survival. Through blog posts, printables, courses, and the “This Might Get Messy” podcast, Gal explores what it means to unmask safely, communicate authentically, and make art that doesn’t ask for permission. Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.
AI generated bio
