When I’m Tired of Being Autistic

Today feels heavy.

I woke up with the usual determination to embrace the day, but somewhere along the way, a familiar weight began to settle on my shoulders. The kind of weight that whispers, “Your best won’t be good enough today.” It’s not new, but it still stings.

It’s one of those days when I’m tired of being autistic.

I know I’m supposed to champion neurodiversity—and most days, I do. I’m proud of my brain, its quirks, its ability to think deeply, and its knack for noticing things others might miss. I’ve given talks about the strengths autism brings, written about it, and tried to live as a model of what embracing neurodiversity can look like. But that doesn’t make me immune to days like this.

There’s this constant tension between being unapologetically myself and being exhausted by how others perceive me. Today, I feel like my words are under a microscope. Every syllable, every pause, every inflection dissected, analyzed, and sometimes misunderstood. And when I clarify or explain myself, it often feels like I’m handing over pieces of my soul just to be heard the right way.

It’s not that people are always unkind. Many of them mean well. But when your reality is a lifetime of explaining why you said that thing in that way or why you didn’t pick up on that cue, it wears you down.

I can’t just turn my brain off, as much as I sometimes wish I could. The same brain that crafts creative solutions and finds beauty in details others overlook is the same brain that sometimes struggles to understand the rules of social exchanges. The same brain that lets me hyper-focus on projects I love can make me feel alienated in a world that doesn’t run on my wavelength.

And then there are the internal battles. The self-doubt that creeps in when I realize I’ve been masking too much or not enough. The frustration when I feel I have to justify the way my mind works to others.

Being autistic isn’t bad. But some days, it’s hard.

It’s days like these that remind me why I advocate for understanding and acceptance, even when I don’t feel strong enough to fight. Because I know I’m not alone. There are so many others out there feeling the same weight, the same frustration, the same fatigue.

I’m learning to let myself feel these feelings without guilt. It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to say, “Today is hard.” It doesn’t mean I’m giving up on myself or my community. It means I’m human.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up, and the weight will feel lighter. I’ll find joy in my neurodivergent perspective again. But for today, I’m giving myself permission to rest.

If you’re feeling this way too, I see you. We’re allowed to feel the weight—and then set it down when we’re ready.