“Once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through…But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what the storm is all about.”
— Haruki Murakami
For a time, we didn’t appreciate the severity of the storm. School was already behind us; we weren’t clinging onto much. We kept trying — to leave the house, limit screen time, engage with life, with something, someone, anything. Looking back, I can see our son was trying his absolute hardest. But even though he was in control and nothing was forced upon him, eventually, every attempt led back to the same stress we’d experienced around school.
So, we stopped. It was clear he couldn’t go on. We stopped asking, suggesting, offering choices. We told him we were taking a break — a break from life as we knew it. It felt like a huge loss, a kind of grief. I found myself at home every day with my six-year-old, with the sinking realisation that no one was coming to help. Slowly, we began to understand that what we were experiencing was severe autistic burnout. His body was exhausted after years of hypervigilance; he needed time, space, and compassion to recover.
Stopping the World
We were in a fortunate position to support him at home. While it became impossible for me to work, we could still manage to pay the bills. I often think of families who don’t have that choice, who must keep going despite the cost. With hindsight, I’m deeply grateful we could take that step back, to stop the outside pressures of school and the local authority.
The only pressures that remained were the ones we placed on ourselves: they were hard to silence. For weeks, our son woke exhausted. He’d shuffle down the stairs wrapped in his duvet, unable to get dressed, and sit hunched over his iPad with the TV on all day. His words were few — tired, hungry, thirsty, toilet. It was as if his body and brain had shut down. I learned that before the body can heal, it must first feel safe. Only then can it slow down enough to recover. Once the fight-or-flight state — the hypervigilance and high levels of cortisol and adrenaline — begins to ease, exhaustion surfaces. The body needs time to get used to feelings of safety. For our son, this was going to be a long process; he had a lot to recover from.
His Space
We gave him the lounge. It became his space. A place where he could feel safe but not be completely inaccessible.
He’d shout “toilet” when he needed to go, sprint there, and rush back to safety. I had to accompany him out of the lounge. He was scared. He screamed often, he could hear things we couldn’t. The TV masked the sounds that frightened him. Sometimes the screams were his only way to communicate distress.
It was devastating to see him disappear into a world of screens. Every parental instinct told us it was wrong yet we knew it was a symptom, of distress. In a world that had become too demanding and unkind, screens gave him control, predictability and comfort. You can’t reason in burnout; that part of the brain is offline. We had tried, but it only made things worse. Instead, I began to focus on creating an environment that felt safe and offered gentle alternatives.
Bedtime Battles and Co-Regulation
Bedtime was hugely triggering — mania, distress, tears. It could take over an hour to settle. This was new. Nightmares from school lingered for weeks, months. Historically, bedtime had meant separation, fear, and sleepless nights. It was not a safe time or space. So, I made the decision to co-sleep. We had always played “musical beds”, but now it had purpose. Every other mammal co-sleeps; why shouldn’t we?
Amanda Diekman describes three stages of burnout:
- Screens all day
- Curious but no capacity
- Growing capacity
We were firmly in stage one. The distress continued for weeks, even though school was long behind us. Life was wild, emotions and reactions were raw.
When Safety Returns
Through Lori Desautels, I learned that trauma memories aren’t stored like other memories. In times of chronic distress, we can’t access the part of the brain that processes our experiences. So then in moments of safety, sensory triggers — a sight, a sound, a tone — can bring the past flooding back as if it’s happening in the present. Things get worse before they get better. Kristy Forbes helped me see that many reactions are delayed recognitions of distress. Pain surfacing once the brain feels safe enough to process what it had to suppress, to survive. That’s exactly what we were living through. As our son moved into stage two — curious but no capacity — he began to show flickers of interest beyond screens but was easily overwhelmed. We learned to let every emotion rise and fall, to allow feelings to be fully felt and validated, for you can only learn to regulate emotions you are allowed to feel. Movement helped too. Through Peter Levine, I learned that shaking helps discharge stored energy. Animals instinctively do this after threat; humans tend to suppress it, so we store it as tension and unresolved
trauma.
When our son eventually sought connection, I would gently rock or bounce while hugging him. In moments of distress, I would simply hold out my arms. No words needed. Sometimes he wanted me out of his space. Sometimes he slammed the door. That, too, was communication. Healing asks for patience, and respect for boundaries. I’d always return a little later with a little something for him, so he knew I still loved him.
Learning to Stop Pushing
Encouraging him to leave the house was one of the hardest urges to suppress. Every suggestion made things worse. Eventually, we decided not to mention it during the week and try gently on weekends. When met with silence or distress, we reminded ourselves and our son — it was okay.
Inside, I felt like exploding, but on the outside, I stayed calm. He couldn’t feel pressured or made to feel guilty; everything had to happen on his terms, in his time. I had to find ways to release my stress away from him during that time. We messed up a lot, said the wrong thing, pushed when we should have paused. But gradually, I learned to ask myself before speaking or
acting: Is this a step toward or away from connection?
Choosing Love Over Fear
Fear of the future was constant – what might happen. Then I read Bryan Post’s words:
“Stress causes you to react from the past, obsess about the future, and most importantly, takes you out of the present. Our bodies know a surviving energy (fear) and a thriving energy (love).”
We couldn’t all live in survival. So, we chose love — found it, looked for it, nurtured it everywhere we could.
Little quotes anchored me:
- “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”
- “He’s not giving me a hard time; he’s having a hard time.”
- “Be present in the moment; the future does not exist.”
Gentle Healing
I immersed myself in learning. For those wired to shut down as a defence, healing begins with gentle, sensory, body-based experiences that rebuild connection. Our son had an extreme disconnect between body and mind, so I focused on low-demand, sensory ways to help him. I placed different textures, small sensory tools, and creative materials around his space — no words. I researched ‘happy chemistry’ and made lists of ideas. Gradually, he started to engage. Movement increased. I set up wool trails around the house and experiments in the backyard with sunglasses ready to block light. I modelled curiosity and calm.
Naomi Fisher talks about “bringing the outside in,” so I brought plants into the lounge, opened windows, and grew seedlings. Nature became our silent teacher of patience and growth. Sometimes I lay quietly in the lounge, playing on my iPad. Sometimes I brought food arranged like a smiley face, or left a post-it note saying I love you or I see how hard you’re trying. Sometimes I could sit next to him and rest my head on his shoulder. Sometimes he would rest his head on mine. He couldn’t handle words, but he could feel gestures. Little by little, glimmers appeared — “micro-moments.” Each one fleeting
but powerful, they connected like stepping stones out of the storm. Capacity was growing. I also made time for myself — evening walks, long baths, the occasional loud living-room disco. Sometimes stomping, sometimes crying, always releasing.
Connection Through Play
Gaming became our bridge. My husband learned Minecraft; we all played Roblox. Our son taught us — a powerful reversal of roles. At first, he could only manage a few minutes before emotions ran high, but each attempt was progress. He later joined MindJam, a one-to-one mentoring programme through Minecraft. It was his first connection outside our family; built through something he loved. We continued to welcome visitors — carefully chosen friends who understood he might need ‘quiet time’. These children were amazing. We planned and normalised boundaries. Over time, he began asking for visitors himself. Food became another comfort. While some children stop eating in burnout, our son often wanted to eat all the time. I leaned into it, baking healthy treats, eventually cooking together, turning food into connection.
Reconnecting Through Story
“Trauma is not just what happened to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of a connected other.” — Peter Levine
Bedtimes eventually became a place of deep safety and co-regulation. Even when he bounced around the room, I persevered with stories. I let him do what he needed to do. After all, we didn’t have school to worry about the next day. I’d say things like, “That’s a great way to get your body ready for sleep.” One night, he picked up a familiar series of books about animals at school. For weeks the stories came — his own stories — painful unprocessed memories retold through tears. It was therapy. I validated every moment in his stories and apologised for not being there. He was no longer alone in his distress. I could share it with him, and he was healing. As he told his stories, he moved — bouncing, rocking, squeezing — releasing pain his words could only begin to touch.
Creativity and Recovery
Robyn Gobel’s work on Polyvagal Theory helped me understand his behaviour through the lens of the nervous system. Robyn uses three animal metaphors: possum (shutdown), watchdog (fight/flight), and owl (safety). Her approach emphasises how self-regulation develops through co-regulation, and recovery depends on felt safety, connection, and co-regulation. Listening to music one day, I began sketching — the stages of recovery, the animals, the storm. Then came poetry. It was therapy. I eventually self-published a small book on Amazon to honour our journey. Find out more here. I also journaled every small win, every outing, every glimmer. Those notes became proof of progress, reminders that healing was happening even when it was hard to see.
Small Steps Back Into the World
Novelty became the spark that helped us finally leave the house. Our first outing was for ice cream in the car. His hypervigilance was intense; every passing car made him flinch. We went home right after, exhausted but proud. Next came dipping toes in the sea, hotel stays, parks after dark… Each small adventure required recovery, back to nesting and his safe space. Gradually, he began asking to go places or do things, sometimes totally random, like “I want to hold a lobster!” We shared old photos of the things we used to love to do.
We often brought the iPad for comfort. At first, it was essential; now it’s mostly left at home, a transitional object when needed. Stage three – growing capacity – did come with its challenges. Sometimes he’d ask to go somewhere only to change his mind or leave soon after arriving. That was okay. He needed to feel in control and have the freedom to change his mind without judgment. I found this tough. But healing is fragile and nonlinear. Before you know it, you’re back at the start but it’s not the start because you have learned so much along the way. As Robyn Gobel explains, curiosity is initially met with little capacity as the watchdog can scare away the owl — that’s part of the journey. The owl is in training.
Emerging from the Storm
We learned so much — about our son, about ourselves, about the power of slowing down. We emerged different, with stronger boundaries and deeper compassion. We no longer compromise felt safety. You can’t keep pushing. Our son once said, “It’s like tug of war, you have to pull as well.” We had pulled away from the world, which then made space for a little push. They say “it’s not what you say but what you do” in burnout, but I used the connection we’d built at bedtimes to whisper my thoughts:
I know you’re doing your best all of the time.
I love you. Thank you for being my son.
Nothing is your fault. You didn’t fail.
When you’re ready, we’ll make the leap into our new story.
You did everything right. Your brain was protecting you.
Burnout makes you poorly, but rest brings healing.
Anything is possible. Dream big little (Name)
Burnout Is Not Failure
“Burnout is not a failure to do enough. It’s a physiological response to overwhelming demands. It’s not your fault. Burnout needs less, not more. Your child’s loss of skills and increased sensitivities aren’t choices, they’re signals their system is in distress and needs rest, love, and time to heal.” Amanda Diekman
Burnout is transformation. Like a seed buried in darkness, roots grow unseen. Only when the environment is right does the seedling emerge— fragile, yet stronger for the struggle.
Change lives in micro-moments.
Notice the glimmers, the moments of joy.
Feel them.
Collect them.
Cherish them.
Written by Gemma Chapple.
You can find out more about Gemma, her book and her journey at Gemma’s Instagram here.