After the Silence: What Recovery from Autistic Shutdown Really Feels Like

That weird feeling of hearing your voice again.

Like you’re not sure if it’s really yours. Like it echoes wrong, or feels too sharp, or too soft, or like it belongs to someone else. That’s how it felt when mine came back.

After more than a day of being completely nonverbal, the sound of my voice didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like unfamiliar territory. A part of me I thought I lost, trying to come back—but I wasn’t ready to trust it yet.

People think that once you can talk again, you’re better. But I wasn’t.

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I could whisper. I could speak in short sentences.

But I didn’t feel safe doing it.

And that scared me more than being silent.

I was off work, and I had the space to rest—but my throat still hurt. My brain was foggy. My body felt heavy like it had been dragging itself through a storm. And even though I could technically talk again, I chose not to. Because I wasn’t ready.

Because I was afraid that if I used my voice too soon, it might break again.

Because I needed silence to feel safe.

And because pushing through might have cost me even more.

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The guilt hit hard.

I felt useless at work.

I felt like a burden to my friends.

Even though they were supportive, that little voice in my head wouldn’t shut up.

The one that said, “You’re too much.”

The one that said, “You should’ve just eaten something safer.”

The one that said, “Why can’t you just deal with it like everyone else?”

Even when you survive something that nearly broke you, the world still expects a smile. And when you're autistic, the moment you're able to speak again, people assume you're "all better."

But I wasn’t.

I was still deep in recovery. I just wasn’t silent anymore.

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The hardest question I kept asking myself:

> “Should I have even gone to work?”

And the truth is: I don’t know.

I don’t know if I should’ve stayed home.

I don’t know if I should’ve asked someone else to drive me.

I don’t know if my body would've shut down anyway.

All I know is, I did what I could with what I had.

And even that nearly broke me.

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Recovery isn’t just resting. It’s rebuilding.

It’s sitting in your room with a stuffed animal named Buc-ee and a Nee Doh cube, crying into a blanket because your voice hurts and your brain is still scared.

It’s eating soft food because your throat still stings.

It’s not speaking—not because you can’t anymore, but because you need the quiet.

It’s reminding yourself that being nonverbal isn’t shameful.

That choosing silence is not failure.

That this is how autistic bodies protect themselves.

It’s not linear. It’s not clean.

And it doesn’t fit into a work schedule or a school day or polite small talk.

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This is what autistic resilience really looks like.

It’s not about bouncing back. It’s about crawling forward slowly, carefully, and on your own terms.

It’s learning how to stop apologizing for needing quiet.

It’s naming what happened as real, and hard, and valid.

It’s letting your voice return when it decides—not when others do.

So if you’ve ever felt broken after shutdown—if you’ve ever been scared to speak again, or stayed silent because it felt safer—please know this:

You’re not alone.

You’re not weak.

And you’re not failing.

You’re surviving. You’re adapting.

You’re doing what your body needs to stay here.

I’m still autistic.

I’m still healing.

And I’m still here.