As half term approached, my AuDHD PDA daughter has less fuel in her tank. Less capacity. A lot less ability to regulate. Cue the neurodivergent burnout. And if I’m honest? Me too.
Less capacity to navigate everything. Less resilience for the challenging home environment. Less of whatever it is that usually keeps me going.
Then the curveballs started flying. A fractured thumb – what a wonderful sensory experience for a child who’s already struggling. Not. Fresh grief hitting me as I realised I’d need to undertake the overwhelming task of doing a parent-led Educational Health Care Plan (EHCP) because her needs have gotten more severe.
But still moving forwards. Still showing up for my family, for my job, for everything in between. Burnout is real. It’s heavy. And it doesn’t care for anything.
Ahead of Valentine’s Day, my social media feeds were full of it.
“Treat yourself, queen!”
“You deserve a spa day!”
“Self-care isn’t selfish!”
“Love yourself first!”
Bubble baths. Face masks. Chocolate and prosecco. The self-care industrial complex in full swing. And I sat here thinking: what does self-love actually look like when you’re this burned out?
When there’s no capacity for a spa day and no time for meditation apps. When “treating yourself” feels like one more thing on an impossible to-do list. When you’re parenting a neurodivergent child approaching half term, dealing with fractured thumbs, facing EHCP assessments, and trying to show up at work without completely falling apart. What then?
What Self Care Actually Looked Like for Me
Still going to the gym. Still running. Still training for the half marathon. Because that’s what fills my cup. That’s my therapy. Not because I’m being virtuous or disciplined, but because I know what keeps me functional.
Showing up to the support sessions we’ve put in place for our family. Even when I’m exhausted. Because future me needs the work we’re doing now.
Hibernating at work. Head down, getting through the work. Focusing on a big exciting project that helps squash the sabotaging self-talk that gets louder when I’m burned out.
And here’s the hardest one: asking for help.
I’ve never been good at this. It’s taken a lot of personal development and therapy to understand that asking for help isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength.
So this week, I let my family and friends know: this feels really hard right now. Really hard. And because I’m lucky enough to have an incredible support network, both inside and outside of work, they stepped in to make it a little less hard.
A team member has been checking in almost daily. Not in a hovering way. Just a “you doing ok?” that actually means it.
My manager said: “Can you book a wellbeing day?”
At Talking Talent, we get six wellbeing days every year. On top of annual leave. These aren’t days to cover school holidays or child sickness: they’re whole days to focus on me and what supports my wellbeing. As a working parent, these are gold. Actual, literal gold.
That week, that made difference. Not a meditation app or a resilience workshop – aut actual, tangible support from people who see me.
A workplace that recognises burnout as a capacity issue, not a character flaw. Colleagues who check in because they genuinely care, not because it’s on a wellbeing checklist. A manager who doesn’t ask “have you tried mindfulness?” but instead asks “what do you need?”
A culture that builds in recovery time before people completely break.
And here’s the thing: I’ve still been showing up this week. Attending meetings. Delivering work. Ticking boxes.
But I’ve been hibernating. Head down. Just getting through. That’s the bit most workplaces miss.
What Burnout Actually Costs
I’m present, but I’m not fully here. I’m functioning, but I’m not thriving.
That’s presenteeism. And that has a cost.
The cost of someone operating at 60% capacity while burning out. The cost of the creativity and innovation that doesn’t happen when people are in survival mode. The cost of the turnover when people finally hit the wall and leave.
Most workplace wellness programmes focus on managing burnout after it’s happened. Yoga classes. Resilience training. Apps that tell you to breathe. But what if we caught it earlier?
What if we planned for human capacity the way we plan for project capacity? What if we asked “what support do you need right now?” instead of “why aren’t you coping?” What if we recognised that parents of neurodivergent children, carers, people managing chronic illness, anyone holding more than is visible on the surface – what if we built workplaces that actually made space for that reality?
The businesses that get this aren’t just being compassionate. They’re being smart. They’re building sustainable cultures where people can actually stay and contribute meaningfully, not just survive until they burn out.
So this Valentine’s weekend, here’s what self-love looked like for me; the self-love no one posts about:
- It’s admitting out loud: I’m burning out and that’s real.
- It’s not adding self-care to my already impossible to-do list.
- It’s asking for help, even though it doesn’t come naturally.
- It’s going to the gym because it’s my therapy, not because I should.
- It’s working somewhere that gives me wellbeing days and colleagues who check in daily.
- It’s recognising that sometimes loving yourself isn’t indulgent, it’s survival.
Real self-love when you’re running on empty isn’t bubble baths and face masks. It’s setting boundaries, even small ones. It’s saying “I’m at capacity.” It’s accepting help when it’s offered. It’s showing up for the things that actually fill your cup, even when you’re exhausted.
And it’s working in places that understand this. That treat burnout as something to prevent, not just manage. That recognise human capacity as finite and plan accordingly.
Here’s to the Real Love!
If you’re running on empty, whether you’re parenting neurodivergent children, caring for family, managing chronic illness, or just holding more than anyone can see – this is your reminder:
Loving yourself doesn’t mean adding more to your plate. It means being honest about what’s already there. It means asking for help. It means accepting it when it comes. It means working somewhere that actually makes space for you to be human.
That’s the self-love worth celebrating. That’s the workplace culture worth building.
Because the most loving thing we can do for ourselves when we’re running on empty? Admit it. Ask for help. And work somewhere that actually gives a damn.