This week, I pushed myself too far. Stress piled up, and instead of being mindful enough to take a step back, I trudged forward, fixated on making it to the weekend and much-needed time with a good friend. In the end, one small trigger—an unpleasant microwave meal—pushed me over the edge, and I spiraled into a full-on autistic meltdown.

What I experienced was an autistic meltdown, but I know that when I describe it, it doesn’t look like what most people expect. Even just a few years ago, I wouldn’t have recognized it as such.

From the outside, my meltdowns don’t look stereotypical. To someone observing, I am panicked, paranoid, and overly emotional. My meltdowns have been misinterpreted throughout my life my meltdowns as moral failings or immaturity because they’re internalized and masked, shaped by years of people-pleasing and undiagnosed autism.

But this meltdown wasn’t really about one gross meal. The stressors that triggered it had been building for days, maybe even weeks.

The Stressors That Built the Storm

Let’s start with the season. The holidays are my most challenging time of year. It’s cold, dark, and bleak, and I wrestle with seasonal affective disorder (SAD). Add to that the stress of family dynamics—always fraught for me—and you’ve got a cocktail of anxiety. No amount of coping strategies can fully insulate me.

I also don’t see very well in the dark, and this time of year, I have the choice of either driving to work in the dark or driving home in the dark—there’s just no way around it. My job is hybrid, which helps a lot with avoiding this unnecessary stress, but, ultimately, this is always a factor raising my stress levels this time of year.

My workload also hasn’t helped. With the end of the year approaching, I’ve been juggling a mile-long list of projects with quickly approaching due dates, including a complex art installation across multiple locations. Despite my best efforts to prepare the other people involved and myself for the schedule upsets, last-minute changes derailed my schedule. The installation had some hiccups (as all projects do), and shifting gears to manage it left me frazzled.

Then there were the daily frustrations. The office was noisy and too warm, the air dry enough to crack my skin. A passive-aggressive email from a coworker landed squarely in my inbox while I was already stretched thin. My car’s check engine light came on during the drive between sites, leaving me worrying about how I’d get around if it broke down entirely.

By the time I got home that evening, I wanted nothing more than to collapse, but my own misplaced guilt about upholding societal norms wouldn’t let me. Instead, I pushed through tasks on my personal to-do list, adding to my exhaustion. The next morning, I woke up groggy, aching, and irritable—classic signs of being overtaxed. I ignored them and went to work anyway, focused not on my health but on completing outstanding tasks on my to-do list.

The Breaking Point

I spent that morning at work hyper-focused, ignoring hunger and bathroom breaks. When I finally stopped to eat, the meal I’d brought (a microwave meal outside of my norm) was disgusting—so much so that my body physically recoiled. That tiny moment was the final straw. I couldn’t even eat my backup granola bar because my stomach was in knots.

I tried to walk it off, but outside, gale-force winds and bitter cold battered me, leaving me frozen and tense. Back inside, my body revolted. Vertigo set in, my stomach churned, and I felt tears threatening to spill. I emailed my department to say I was unwell and left, praying I could drive home before breaking down (both me and my car).

At home, I was desperate to unplug and rest. But instead of the quiet I needed, I heard a loud screech from the basement. My frequent uninvited guest, a shrew that had been finding its way into my basement, was back. My cats, excited for the chase, were already in a frenzy.

See, this shrew has become, more or less, a member of my little family since I moved into this townhouse a couple of years ago. The shrew (I call it Sal) lives under my patio and has been caught by my cats out in the garden multiple times. This winter, Sal has found a way into my basement through the broken foundation and keeps falling from the top of the concrete and getting stuck down there. I had already caught it twice in a live trap, but every couple of days or so, it seems to take a wrong turn in its burrow and ends up inside.

My cats love it. It’s their favorite game. They love to chase Sal, but they (including Sal) have concluded that it is a family member and should not be harmed. They merely chase it around and maybe paw around it gently. One of my cats even caught it and tried to bring it inside once this summer, never causing any harm, just playing with it, like her new favorite toy.

At this point, Sal is essentially a family member in my mind as well. I would cry if anything happened to this shrew. I have cried just thinking about something happening to it. But that doesn’t mean I want it in my basement, running around, riling up the cats, starving to death, etc.

I managed to coax Sal into a live trap once more, but my panic spiraled. Should I release it further away from my house so it stops coming inside? Would it survive the freezing, windy weather without its established burrow and food supply? What if it was injured? Could I care for it until conditions improved? I tried to set up a temporary habitat, but the stress overwhelmed me. The shrew ran in frantic circles while my cats pawed at the enclosure. I felt completely responsible for its suffering.

I did eventually put the shrew back outside, then rearranged my basement storage area so that there are objects in front of where it keeps falling off the wall. I tried to find ways to break its fall and maybe even allow it to climb back up. I put a dish with water in the basement so that it can stay hydrated if it does get stuck again and I’m not around. I check for it multiple times a day.

Recovery and Reflection

I’m still recovering from that meltdown. Guilt about the shrew lingers, and I’m exhausted. But I’m proud that I recognized the meltdown in the moment—a first for me. Growing up, I frequently had meltdowns that looked a lot like this. When I was really young, I was told I was throwing a tantrum. That I was a spoiled brat and just acting out because I didn’t get my way. When I was a teenager, I recognized them as panic attacks, but could never understand why they seemed to go on for days at a time and that recovery took even longer.

Now, I see them for what they are: a neurological response to overwhelm. I’m still learning to recognize them in the moment. But I’m getting better at giving myself the grace and the space I need to recover. And I’m getting better at creating a life for myself that doesn’t push me over the edge so often.

I’m making progress. I need to remember that nothing is instantaneous. Slow progress is still progress.