Image courtesy of Bea
www.beatrixfinch.com
I’ve been sitting with something that’s coming up more and more in conversations with young people – especially those who are neurodivergent, sensitive, or feeling lost in the leap from adolescence into adulthood.
They’re saying they’re burnt out. They’re wondering if they’re chronically ill. They’re withdrawing, overwhelmed, and full of “I can’ts”. And I believe them – because something very real and visceral is happening.
But I also wonder: is what they’re calling burnout or chronic illness sometimes something else?
What if, for some, it’s not about a long-term diagnosis, but a short-term collapse of support, confidence, and direction? What if “I’m a spoonie” is really “I’m a little alone right now”?
How to Hold Hope
This is a tricky topic for me to write about. My teen, Bea, does have a chronic illness alongside neurodivergence and I’ve spent years learning to meet that reality with clarity, softness, and deep respect. I’ve also had to untangle my own knee-jerk emotional responses when other young people describe something similar, but the shape of it doesn’t quite match.
Among the young people I support, those living with chronic illness move differently. Their bodies and words carry caution and pacing. You can see the pause: the moment they assess whether they can manage something and what it might cost. They know their limits and make clear decisions about when to push and when to protect themselves.
There’s rarely that impulsive, “let’s live for now, crash later” kind of energy. If anything, they’re more grounded in the long term – sometimes philosophical, sometimes quietly hopeful.
“I can’t” becomes “I can’t work out how.”
“I’m not able to” becomes “I’m not able to without this support.”
That nuance matters. Not to disprove anyone’s experience, but to remind us how important it is to name things carefully – so we don’t accidentally build a life around a story that isn’t quite true.
Burnout as a Shorthand for “I’m Not Coping”
Burnout has become a kind of umbrella word. It holds exhaustion, disconnection, overwhelm, and the quiet scream of “this isn’t working.” For neurodivergent young people especially, it can feel like the only word that explains why they suddenly can’t do things they used to.
But sometimes, what’s really going on is a mix of:
- Low mood and depressive thinking
- Underdeveloped coping and life skills
- A few painful knockbacks
- And a world that doesn’t slow down long enough to help them catch their breath
They’re not broken. They’re stuck.
And they’re trying to make sense of their “now” in the only language they have.
The Trouble with Naming Too Soon
It’s tempting to land on a clear label – burnout, chronic fatigue, I’m just not built for this world. It can offer a sense of relief and belonging. But if it’s not quite accurate, it can also become a trap. A self-concept built on a moment of crisis.
Discomfort starts to feel like impossibility.
A hard week starts to feel like a permanent identity.
The messy middle gets skipped over in favour of a finish line that says: “I just can’t.”
A Letter from a Mum
I feel like I see this most often in young adults who don’t have a bedrock relationship with a parent or other trusted adult – one of complete intimacy, honesty and trust. They are trying to transition to adulthood without someone saying “I’ve got you”, we all know how hard it is to leap without knowing whether we can fall safely.
It’s not the only reason but it’s screamingly obvious to many of us how the wider mental health crisis in young people has coincided with the closure and absence of the majority of youth spaces.
In a typical blog post like this, it would end with some kind of checklist, those trite sanitised points of advice that keep us all a little distanced and disconnected, instead here’s a quiet letter from a mum, that could also be from any trusted adult or youth leader:
Dear you, beautiful shining you,
I know life feels hard right now. I believe you.
But I also believe you might be more capable than you feel.
Not today, maybe. Not alone.
But slowly. Gently.
With scaffolding, and honesty,
And a little less pressure to define yourself by your hardest moments.
You don’t have to prove you’re struggling.
You don’t have to decide who you are based on this particular low point.
And you don’t need a diagnosis to ask for help, or rest, or re-routing.
Your “I can’t” might really mean “I’m scared to try again.”
Your “I’m not able to” might really mean “I haven’t had the right kind of support yet.”
That’s okay. That’s human. I see you, I've got you.
This isn’t about pushing you - onwards or away.
This isn't about not listening to you - it's about holding hope for you,
Even when you can’t hold it yourself.
Not the kind of hope that insists everything will be easy.
But the kind that quietly whispers:
What if this isn’t the end of the road?
What if this is just a bend in it?
Rooting for you, come get a hug.
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