Why Neurodivergent Women Need Different Kinds of Rest

Sometimes, rest doesn’t feel like rest for me. It’s hard to relax when you have a mind that’s constantly running full speed ahead. Even when I technically have free time, I rarely feel recharged afterward. I can spend hours lying in bed watching TV, reading, or doing nothing at all and still feel mentally exhausted.

Now, I work from home. I’m a caregiver for my mom, so my time is spent helping her throughout the day. I do get small moments in between to be by myself and rest for a little while. But even in that “rest” there’s anticipation anxiety because I’m already thinking about the next task. So there’s never really a full sense of rest during those moments.

Caregiving takes a lot out of you both physically and emotionally. For me, it’s difficult watching a loved one live in constant pain and discomfort, especially when it’s your mom. There are so many layers to it. Part of me feels grateful to help her. Part of me is grieving the old version of her. And part of me is stuck in this strange in-between of overwhelm and contentment. But by the end of the day, I’m often so mentally exhausted that it’s hard to feel anything other than numbness.

I’ve often wondered why rest never seemed to work for me the way it appeared to work for everyone else. Honestly, I think a lot of neurodivergent women experience this without even realizing it.

It’s layers of exhaustion—emotional, sensory, social, and mental—all from constantly thinking, masking, processing, analyzing, remembering, and trying to function in a life that rarely slows down for us.

For me, crowded spaces can become incredibly overwhelming. I love grocery shopping at Trader Joe’s, but it’s always so jam-packed with people. The aisles are small, so you’re constantly saying, “excuse me.” The checkout lines are long. And it makes me anxious because I genuinely like to browse and see what’s new in the store. But when people are surrounding you, it becomes harder to decide on things or even grab items you need because someone is always blocking the way.

Being there leaves me mentally and physically exhausted. Physically because my heart is pounding, my body feels tense, and I’m usually dizzy or nauseous from all of the overstimulation—the lights, the people, the pressure. It’s almost always overwhelming for me. However, there are occasional moments when it’s quieter and less crowded, and I immediately notice how much calmer my body feels.

I think so many neurodivergent women, especially those diagnosed later in life or overlooked entirely, grow up believing we always need to “try harder” to keep up.

So we become accustomed to pushing through burnout. Ignoring our limits. Forcing productivity. And eventually, our nervous systems begin to shut down.

Sometimes, I like to go away and visit friends for a while. I rarely get to see them, so when I do, I want to make the most of my stay by spending as much time with them as possible. But it’s incredibly socially draining.

I’m someone who needs alone time. Time to recuperate after long stretches of talking, entertaining, laughing, and being socially engaged. Don’t get me wrong, there’s absolutely nothing I love more than being around the people I care about. But sometimes those long visits take months to recover from.

Moments like that, where I’m constantly socializing, often result in major burnout. There really is no rest. No pause. Unless you’re sleeping or briefly escaping to the bathroom for a moment alone. Burnout for me looks like complete dissociation. I become so mentally exhausted that I lose myself somewhere in the process of trying to keep up with everything and everyone around me.

It hits me really hard when I expend too much energy because honestly, I barely feel like I have enough to begin with.

The truth is that traditional ideas of rest don’t always meet neurodivergent needs. Sometimes rest is finally feeling safe enough to stop performing.

Personally, one of the biggest forms of rest for me is silence. Quiet spaces help me feel steady again. Often when there is too much noise, too much pressure, or too much stimulation, I slowly start shutting down without even realizing it at first.

My favorite quiet moments are when I’m alone in my room writing, watching TV, or reading. Yes, I do need a distraction while “resting.” I also enjoy cooking when I feel up to it. Distractions help me focus on something other than my intrusive thoughts. But moments where I’m either at home or outside taking a quiet walk, I find genuine solace in silence.

Sometimes neurodivergent rest can look contradictory. Sometimes I need complete silence. Other times I need comforting background noise so my thoughts don’t overwhelm me. Often, rest means being alone. But other times, isolation can make my mental health worse.

I’ve been going through a heavy time lately. I haven’t seen very many people. I haven’t engaged with the outside world as much. It’s gotten to a point where my once cherished solitude has started turning into loneliness.

When I’m alone and isolated from the rest of the world, I feel peace. But sometimes that peace can turn into restlessness, irritation, and a desperate need for change.

I mentioned earlier that I prefer silence because it gives me time to unmask, unwind, and just be myself. But when loneliness sinks in after too much solitude, it creates a completely different kind of ache.

Loneliness, to me, feels like the need for human connection. Solitude feels peaceful—but only in smaller doses.

There are days when my idea of rest looks productive from the outside—making breakfast, cleaning my room, sitting outside with coffee, listening to music, writing, or doing something comforting.

And then there are other days when rest simply means surviving emotionally.

I think that’s something many people misunderstand about neurodivergence. Exhaustion isn’t always visible.

Masking alone can drain an enormous amount of energy. Constantly monitoring facial expressions, tone, eye contact, conversations, and social expectations can leave neurodivergent women completely depleted.

Here are some everyday things that can become overwhelming:

• Bright lights
• Loud noises
• Crowded stores
• My phone ringing
• Decision fatigue
• Emotional distress
• Unexpected changes
• Feeling perceived all the time

Eventually, your brain stops feeling rested because it never truly gets a break from processing. That’s why neurodivergent rest often needs to be softer, slower, and more intentional.

The kind of rest that allows your nervous system to unclench for a while.

I’ve been trying to pay closer attention to the kinds of rest that actually help me instead of forcing myself into routines that only look productive online.

Sometimes that means:

• Sitting in silence in the morning
• Cooking a comforting meal
• Taking breaks from social media
• Wearing comfy clothes
• Writing my thoughts instead of bottling them up
• Spending time alone without forcing productivity

Typically, my comfort routine is simple. I’ll wake up, make a cup of coffee, and sit on my bed for at least 10–15 minutes in silence before even looking at my phone. It gives me time to fully wake up and feel human again after a long night of sleep.

I’ll wear my loungewear—sweatpants, a tank top, and an oversized hoodie if it’s cold. I’ll write in my journal for a while. Read if I’m in the mood. Go outside and walk around a little bit. And sometimes I’ll cook something comforting like a hearty pot roast with potatoes and carrots.

I’m learning that rest is deeply personal. And for neurodivergent women especially, rest is not laziness. It’s recovery.

I think the reason so many neurodivergent women feel exhausted all the time is because we were never taught how to rest in ways that actually support who we are.

Maybe healing begins when we stop asking ourselves to function like everyone else.

What kind of rest actually makes you feel safe, grounded, and emotionally restored?

“Rest and self-care are so important. When you take time to replenish your spirit, it allows you to serve others from the overflow.” — Eleanor Brownn

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