On Exhaustion and Clarity
I spend most of my days in a room full of faces expecting something from me.
They are not there to know what I am carrying. They are there to have their teeth cleaned. They need me to be present, capable, gentle, and reassuring, even when inside I am not sure I have anything left to give.
So I put the mask on again.
When people ask how I am, I say “I’m good” or “I’m fine.” I say it with the right tone and the right smile, the kind that does not invite questions. I have been practicing this my whole life. It is not really pretending. It is survival. It is what allows me to function in the role I am in.
Still, it is a mask.
The weariness after “fine”
At the end of the day, I am never just tired. I am exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally.
Not only from doing the work, but from being “on.”
I do have empathy. I care deeply about the people in my chair. But empathy is not endless. Keeping it available hour after hour requires energy, and there are days when I am already running on empty.
This was true even before I lost Kayla. I was already using energy to appear normal, to translate my internal experience into something more acceptable to the world. Grief did not create the exhaustion. It amplified it. What was tiring became depleting. What was draining became emptying.
I wrote more about what grief feels like in an autistic nervous system here.
I come home detached in a way that does not feel restful. On harder days, irritability follows me home, carrying pieces of the day that did not resolve. I say no to things that require physical effort, even when they are things I want to do or know would help me. I simply do not have the energy for them. And sometimes, beneath all of it, there is resentment that I still override my limits and give anyway.
I do share parts of myself with my patients. Enough to make them feel comfortable. Enough to feel real. I think that is why many of them connect with me so easily. What I share is often unexpected, but it is still intentional. I am choosing authenticity in a measured way, not opening everything.
That choice takes work.
I am constantly listening for what each person needs from me. I sense when something will land and when it will not. When my instinct is right, I give freely. When it is wrong, I know immediately and pull back. That kind of attunement creates connection, but it also costs energy. It requires focus, restraint, and constant adjustment.
People often experience this as warmth or ease. What they do not see is the effort it takes to calibrate myself so precisely, all day long.
What I used to think exhaustion meant
For a long time, I believed exhaustion meant weakness.
Failure. Laziness. Not trying hard enough.
That belief no longer fits. Not because I am more rested, but because I understand now that this kind of exhaustion has a cause. It is not a flaw. It is a cost.
What becomes visible when the mask slips
There are spaces where I do not have to perform.
With people who know me well, the mask can drop without risk. When that happens, I notice something I did not expect. Some people appreciate me more when I am fully myself. Some patients feel more at ease when I am not performing a role but simply being present. My family loves me without conditions attached to energy, tone, or performance.
I do not think of this as freedom exactly. It feels more like permission. Permission to be myself where it is safe, and to mask where it is necessary, without believing that either choice defines my worth.
I have been learning this slowly, even before I had language for autistic traits. I have learned how to unmask in ways that respect boundaries, including my own.
I’ve written more about realizing I’m autistic here.
The cost and the clarity
Masking has protected me. It has allowed me to work. It has allowed me to show up for others even when I am not whole inside. That protection matters.
But masking is not free.
Its cost is energy. It is clarity. It is the strange feeling of being both deeply authentic and quietly hidden at the same time.
This connects to why I no longer explain myself by default.
What I am learning now is that clarity is not something you chase. It is something you earn by understanding when you are masking, why you are doing it, and what it costs you to keep going.
Honesty is not always about saying exactly how you feel.
Sometimes honesty is knowing why you cannot say it yet.
