Autistic Burnout in Children: Our Journey from School Avoidance to Recovery
Our journey through autistic burnout, school avoidance, and finding the glimmers of hope when everything felt hopeless.
She Couldn't Go to School. Then She Couldn't Do Anything.
There was a time when my daughter couldn't go to school.
But it wasn't just school.
She couldn't get up in the mornings.
She couldn't have a shower.
She couldn't get dressed.
She couldn't come downstairs and join us for family meals.
She couldn't go to the clubs and activities she'd once absolutely loved.
She couldn't spend time with friends.
She couldn't even pick up a book and read.
And my daughter loved reading.
The things that had once brought her so much joy had become completely overwhelming.
It was as though her world had become smaller and smaller, until eventually, even the simplest everyday things were too much.
My daughter was in deep autistic burnout.
And as her mum, watching her disappear further and further from the little girl I knew was absolutely heartbreaking.
We tried everything we were told to try.
At first, like so many parents, I thought we needed to find a way to make school manageable again.
We spoke to the school. We explored reducing her timetable. We tried to find ways to make attending feel less overwhelming.
But how could she manage a reduced timetable when she couldn't even leave the house?
It wasn't that she didn't want to go.
She couldn't.
And there is an enormous difference between those two things.
We went to the GP, who referred us to CAMHS.
The waiting list? Two years.
Two years.
When your child is struggling to get through each day, two years feels like an eternity.
There were psychiatric assessments, appointments, questions and conversations.
And yet, some of the things my daughter was experiencing were attributed simply to her being autistic, rather than being explored as possible symptoms of her deteriorating mental health.
As though being autistic somehow explained away her distress.
But I knew my daughter.
I knew what she had once been able to do. I knew the things she had enjoyed. I knew how much she had changed.
And I knew that what we were seeing wasn't simply autism.
This was a child who had reached the absolute limits of her capacity to cope.
And she needed help.
Eventually, I stopped trying to get her back to where she'd been.
I stopped focusing on getting her back to school.
I stopped worrying about when she'd be able to do the things she used to do.
I stopped trying to encourage her to do just a little bit more.
Instead, I started meeting her exactly where she was.
I followed her lead.
I removed as many demands as I possibly could.
I let her do things in her own time, in her own way.
No pressure.
No expectations.
No targets to meet.
No timetable for recovery.
If she couldn't get dressed, that was okay.
If she couldn't come downstairs, that was okay.
If she couldn't face leaving the house, that was okay too.
I didn't need her to prove she was getting better.
I needed her to feel safe enough to begin recovering.
And I needed her to know that she was loved, accepted and valued, regardless of what she could or couldn't manage that day.
Because her worth had never depended on her ability to attend school, achieve things or meet anyone else's expectations.
And then I started noticing the glimmers.
Not big breakthroughs.
Not dramatic transformations.
Just tiny, beautiful moments that would probably have seemed completely insignificant to anyone else.
The first morning she got herself dressed.
I remember how enormous that felt.
Something most families wouldn't think twice about had become a milestone worth celebrating.
Then there was the first time she went outside and bounced on the trampoline.
For a little while, she was doing something simply because it felt good.
The first time she came to the table to join us for pudding.
Not a whole family meal. Just pudding.
But she was there, with us.
The first time she felt able to come on a dog walk with me.
Out of the house. Into the fresh air. Sharing a little bit of the world together again.
And then, around fourteen months into her recovery, something happened that meant more to me than I can possibly explain.
She picked up a book.
And she read.
For the first time in well over a year, she had enough capacity to enjoy something she'd once loved so much.
I can't adequately describe what that moment meant.
Because it wasn't really about the book.
It was about seeing another little piece of my daughter return.
Not because I'd pushed her.
Not because we'd set a goal.
Not because someone had told her she needed to try harder.
But because, gradually, gently, at her own pace, she was finding her way back to herself.
Recovery wasn't a straight line.
There were good days and difficult days.
Times when she seemed to be making progress, followed by days when everything felt too much again.
Sometimes something she'd managed one day was impossible the next.
But I'd learnt not to measure her recovery by what she could achieve.
I'd learnt to look for the glimmers.
Those tiny signs of growing capacity.
A smile.
A little more laughter.
A moment of connection.
An interest in something she'd previously enjoyed.
And I learnt that sometimes the most helpful thing I could do was absolutely nothing.
Just be there.
Be her safe person.
Give her the space, time and understanding she needed.
And trust that recovery could happen without me constantly trying to make it happen.
And eventually, she went back to school.
Not to her old school.
A new school. A fresh start at secondary school.
And not because we'd finally found the right attendance strategy, or persuaded her that school was important.
But because she'd gradually recovered enough capacity to begin taking those steps.
In her own time.
With the right support.
And eventually, my daughter, who had once been unable to leave the house, was getting on a bus and travelling to school independently.
The little girl who couldn't even get out of bed in the morning was now getting herself ready and catching the school bus.
I don't think I'll ever take that for granted.
And I want to be very clear about something.
Returning to school wasn't the measure of her recovery.
Seeing her rediscover her joy, her interests, her confidence and her connection with the world mattered far more.
School became possible because she'd recovered enough to manage it.
We didn't make school attendance the route to recovery. We made recovery the priority.
And that changed everything.
If you're living through this right now, I want you to know something.
Perhaps your child is spending most of their time in their bedroom.
Perhaps they've stopped seeing friends, abandoned their favourite activities or are struggling with basic personal care.
Perhaps you've had endless meetings with school, tried reduced timetables, sought referrals and joined waiting lists.
Perhaps you're frightened about their education, their future and whether they'll ever be happy again.
And perhaps, underneath all of that, you're absolutely exhausted.
I know that feeling.
Not just as a paediatric clinical hypnotherapist who specialises in supporting neurodivergent children and families.
But as a mum who's lived it.
And I want you to know that your child isn't choosing to struggle.
They're not being lazy, stubborn or difficult.
They may simply have nothing left to give.
When a child has spent months or years trying to cope with a world that demands more than they can manage, their capacity can become completely depleted.
And the answer isn't necessarily another strategy to get them through the school gates.
Sometimes, what they need most is for the demands to stop, for the pressure to lift, and for someone to help them feel safe again.
That doesn't mean giving up on their future.
It means giving them the opportunity to recover.
This Thursday, I'd love to share what I've learnt with you.
On Thursday, I'm hosting a FREE LIVE masterclass:
When Your Child Can't Cope Anymore
What's really behind school avoidance, withdrawal and overwhelm and how to help them find their way back.
This is for parents and carers of autistic and ADHD children and teenagers who are struggling to attend school, withdrawing from life or showing signs of burnout.
I'll help you understand:
Why school avoidance is often about depleted capacity, not simply anxiety or behaviour.
Why the usual approaches to getting children back into school can sometimes make things harder.
What your child really needs when even everyday life feels overwhelming.
How you can begin supporting recovery at home, without pressure, battles or needing your child to engage in therapy.
How to recognise those tiny glimmers of progress, even when recovery feels impossibly far away.
This isn't about forcing your child back to normal.
It's about helping them feel safe, connected and capable of experiencing joy again.
And showing you that, as their parent, you can be one of their greatest resources for recovery.
You don't have to have all the answers.
You don't have to fix everything.
And you certainly don't have to do it perfectly.
But you deserve to understand what's happening to your child, and to feel more confident about how to help them.
Join me on Thursday 22 October for this free live masterclass.
With love,
Amy Dalwood-Fairbanks
Mum of two neurodivergent children, Award-Winning Paediatric Clinical Hypnotherapist and Founder of Magic Minds Family Hypnotherapy.
⭐Supporting families of neurodivergent children to feel calm, connected and contented⭐
Comments