The playdate was a rare occasion—my kids actually asked to meet up with friends. Naturally, I was shocked but determined to make it work. So, there I was, chatting with another mum. She was lovely—warm, easy to talk to, and genuinely kind. And yet, I felt anything but comfortable.
In the lead-up to this meeting, my brain had been in overdrive: What will we talk about? What do we have in common? Will she think I’m weird? Are the kids okay? Do I have enough snacks? What if it rains? By the time we arrived, I was already exhausted from the sheer effort of overthinking and mentally rehearsing every possible scenario.
The kids, of course, took their sweet time warming up, clinging to me like baby marmosets. After 30 minutes, they finally started playing, and just as I began to relax—bam—it hit me. My eyes went funny, and thinking felt like it was happening in slow motion. Overwhelm had arrived, uninvited and unapologetic.
I needed to leave. But the kids had only just started having fun, and they never ask to socialise. Should I prioritise my own needs and go home to recover, or tough it out for their sake, knowing that every extra minute here would mean an even longer recovery later?
This is one of the hardest parts of being an autistic parent: balancing your children’s needs with your own ability to function. And sometimes, it feels impossible.
What Is Masking and Why Do We Do It?
Masking is a survival mechanism—a way of pretending you’re fine when you’re anything but. It’s a skill many neurodivergent people develop early, often as toddlers. We’re chastised for behaviours that don’t fit societal norms or told to “stop making a fuss” over things like loud noises or certain textures. Over time, we learn to hide our discomfort and present a more “acceptable” version of ourselves.
For me, masking is automatic in social situations. I smile when I want to burst into tears, try to make polite small talk when my brain feels like it’s melting, and suppress my real reactions to avoid being judged. It’s exhausting, but it’s what I’ve been conditioned to do. I once did the school run while having a panic attack and still managed to have a friendly chat with the school secretary about an uncoming event, no one would have known that I was dying inside and threw up in the bushes afterwards.
But masking isn’t just about avoiding criticism—it’s about being part of society. Neurodivergent people often face exclusion, misunderstanding, and even hostility for expressing their needs. Masking becomes a way to protect ourselves from being pushed out, even if it comes at a significant cost to our well-being.
The Hidden Costs of Masking
On the surface, masking can seem like a success story. If no one notices your differences, then surely everything’s fine, right? Wrong.
The effort it takes to maintain this façade is enormous. It’s like running a marathon while wearing a smile and pretending you’re not out of breath. Every word, gesture, and expression is carefully curated to avoid drawing attention. Over time, this takes a toll—not just mentally but physically, too.
I’ve often compared masking to driving with the fuel light on. Sure, you can keep going for a while, but eventually, you’ll break down. And when you do, people around you may not understand why. They don’t see the effort it took to hold yourself together—they just see the meltdown or shutdown that follows.
One particularly bad experience for me was volunteering as Santa at a preschool Christmas fair. I poured my heart into it, making sure every child felt special. But the aftermath was brutal. For a full week, I was a wreck—crying for no reason, too drained to do basic tasks, and completely out of commission. My partner had to step in and handle everything because I physically and mentally couldn’t. It was a wake-up call: no more Santa suits for me.
Overwhelm vs. Burnout: Knowing the Difference
Overwhelm and burnout often get lumped together, but they’re not the same. Overwhelm is immediate—your brain and body screaming, “This is too much!” It can be triggered by sensory overload, unexpected changes, or prolonged social interaction. Burnout, on the other hand, is the long-term consequence of ignoring overwhelm. It’s the body’s way of saying, “I’m done.”
Recognising the difference has been crucial for me. If I catch overwhelm early and take a break, I can recover relatively quickly. But if I push through, masking my discomfort, it can spiral into full-blown burnout, which takes much longer to recover from.
The Power of Taking a Break
For a long time, I saw taking a break as a failure—a sign that I wasn’t strong enough to cope. But I’ve come to realise that breaks are essential, not just for me but for my kids, too.
Now, if I feel the telltale signs of overwhelm creeping in—racing thoughts, dizziness, or irritability—I stop. I let the kids know, politely excuse myself, and head home to recharge. I’ve even started being upfront about it, saying something like, “I’m feeling overwhelmed and need to leave, but I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you.” Most people understand, and those who don’t? Well, their opinion doesn’t matter as much as my mental health.
Teaching My Kids the Value of Self-Care
Interestingly, it wasn’t my own experiences that taught me to take breaks—it was watching my kids. As an autistic parent of two autistic children, I’ve had to learn how to navigate their overwhelm. Whether it’s a meltdown over forest school being moved to a different day or tears over sandwiches cut the “wrong” way, I’ve realised that dismissing their feelings only makes things worse.
By allowing them to take breaks and validating their emotions, I’ve seen them grow more confident in expressing their needs. And in the process, I’ve learned to do the same for myself. They’re learning that self-care is necessary. And so am I.
Breaking the Stigma Around Overwhelm
In a society that prizes resilience and the “stiff upper lip,” admitting to feeling overwhelmed can be seen as a weakness. But it’s not. It’s a sign of self-awareness and strength.
For me, navigating social expectations has been a journey. At work, I’ve had to advocate for myself, explaining that taking short breaks or working from home isn’t laziness—it’s what allows me to be productive. In social situations, I’ve learned to set boundaries and prioritise my well-being, even if it means leaving early.
These steps haven’t just improved my life—they’ve made me a better parent, partner, and friend. Because when I take care of myself, I have more to give to the people I love.
Final Thoughts
Overwhelm is a daily struggle, but it doesn’t have to define your life. By recognising your limits, taking breaks, and being honest about your needs, you can find a balance that works for you.
If you’re a parent, remember this: taking care of yourself isn’t just good for you—it’s good for your kids. By modelling healthy responses to overwhelm, you’re teaching them that their needs matter, too.
Because at the end of the day, self-care is essential to surviving in this crazy world.
Leave a comment