Burnt Out, Inflamed, and Fabulous: My Pandemic Glow-Up (of Sorts)

Remember March 2020? Ah, the nostalgia: sourdough starter kits, Tiger King, and the collective illusion that we'd all emerge from lockdown speaking another language fluently with rock-hard abs. Personally, I chose a different path. A darker, sweatier, puffier path. One might call it... Autism Burnout: Pandemic Edition.

Let’s set the scene.

The world shut down, and so did my nervous system. 

I had a job in health care during the pandemic. 

Cue: burnout. Not the quirky "I'm-so-tired-I-forgot-my-password" burnout. I'm talking full-blown, can't-make-eye-contact-with-the-mirror, everything-is-too-loud, please-don’t-ask-me-what-I-do-for-a-living level burnout. I was a beautifully frayed electrical wire in the shape of a human.

And then my body, not to be outdone, was like: "Surprise! Here's a second autoimmune disease!" Because apparently, if your immune system is going to attack one part of your body, it may as well host a reunion tour.

Also, I gained 50 pounds. I didn’t "balloon" or "pack it on" or "sneak extra snacks at night." I survived. With snacks. The pandemic was like being in a hostage situation with my kitchen and no witnesses.

Then came perimenopause. Reverse puberty. The hormonal version of a raccoon rummaging through your endocrine system. Hot flashes? Yes. Memory lapses? Absolutely. Sudden desire to burn everything uncomfortable in your wardrobe? You bet your polyester slacks.

So, to recap: by 2022 I was inflamed, exhausted, overstimulated by the sound of my own socks, and sweating through shirts. 

Things did get better but I'm not fully recovered from the burnout.

After crashing into the flaming wall of burnout, waddling through the swamp of autoimmune dysfunction, and breakdancing in the hormonal mosh pit of perimenopause—I just stopped caring. About the wrong things, anyway.

Like other people’s opinions. Or unrealistic productivity standards. Or whether I'm "too much" or "not enough."

I’ve got more compassion for myself than I ever thought possible. I protect my energy like it's an endangered species. I say “no” like a toddler. And when I need a week to recover from a two-hour brunch? I take it.

Sure, I now have the social battery life of a potato, and loud restaurants feel like being slapped in the soul—but I’m in tune with myself in a way I never was before. Burnout broke me, but it also rebuilt me—wiser, softer, grumpier in crowds, and blissfully disinterested in fitting in.