Being a neurodivergent, older, nonbinary person in the world of social services can feel like both a gift and a challenge. My brain is wired for intensity, I hyper-focus on my work, driven by the deep satisfaction that comes from helping others. Every call, every crisis averted, every person who leaves feeling seen and supported fuels something inside me. It’s more than a job; it’s how I make sense of the world and my place in it.
But that same fire that keeps me going can also burn me out.
When you are wired to care , truly care, you don’t always see the warning lights until they flicker red. Cave seeking, a brewing inner storm, the creeping cat's paw from within, metaphors for the way burn out can sneak in quietly, even as you’re still smiling and offering compassion to others. I’ve learned (and am still learning) that self-care isn’t indulgence; it’s maintenance. It’s what keeps the compassion engine running.
For me, balance looks like small, intentional acts: returning home between meetings, (meditations on the heart) breathing deeply, remembering that my worth isn’t measured by productivity. It means building boundaries that protect my energy, and honoring rest as a radical act of self-respect. It’s reminding myself that I, too, am part of the community I serve — and deserving of the same care and kindness I so freely offer.
Neurodivergence brings an extraordinary capacity for focus, empathy, and innovation — but it also calls for mindfulness about when to pause. I’m learning that sustainability isn’t about slowing down my purpose, but about nurturing the person behind it.
It’s a kind of wisdom to know when and how to rest in a way that truly restores ones capacity to help, because in the end, when we take care of ourselves, we don’t just preserve our ability to help others: we expand it.
Rest well my friends!