The Blurry Space Between Burnout and Becoming (An ADHD Founder's Truth)

 

I used to think burnout had a clear ending.

Like one day I'd wake up and suddenly have energy again. The fog would lift. My brain would work the way it used to. I'd feel like me again.

But that's not how it happened.

The Space No One Talks About

Three months after my business collapsed and I couldn't get out of bed for two weeks straight, I found myself in this weird liminal space.

I wasn't actively burning out anymore. The panic attacks had mostly stopped. I could shower regularly and make basic decisions about what to eat.

But I also wasn't... recovered.

I'd sit at my desk with my laptop open, staring at a blank document for hours. Not because I was overwhelmed or overstimulated. Just because I couldn't remember what I cared about anymore.

My therapist called it "the in-between." That blurry, exhausting space after burnout but before clarity. Where you're functional enough that people think you're fine, but you're still rebuilding everything from scratch.

Including your relationship with your own brain.

When Your ADHD Stops Making Sense

For years, I thought I had my ADHD figured out.

I knew I needed music to focus. I knew I worked better under pressure. I knew I could hyperfocus my way through anything if the deadline was tight enough.

These weren't coping strategies—they were just how I worked. My brain's natural rhythm.

But after burnout, none of it worked anymore.

The pressure that used to fuel me now felt suffocating. The hyperfocus that used to save me wouldn't come. Even my favorite playlists felt like noise.

I spent weeks trying to force my old systems to work again. Berating myself for being "lazy" when the productivity hacks that used to be magic suddenly felt impossible.

It took me months to realize: I wasn't broken. I was just different now. And maybe that wasn't something to fix—maybe it was something to understand.

The Quiet Work of Rebuilding

Recovery isn't linear when you're neurodivergent.

Some days I could work for four hours straight and feel amazing. Other days, answering three emails felt like climbing a mountain.

The hardest part wasn't the low-energy days. It was learning to trust them.

My entire identity had been built around being the person who could push through anything. Who could work 12-hour days and still have energy for evening calls. Who never said no to an opportunity.

Now I was someone who needed naps. Who had to say no to projects I would have been excited about six months earlier. Who couldn't predict from day to day what my brain would be capable of.

I felt like I was disappointing everyone, including myself.

But slowly, something else started happening.

Learning to Listen Again

I started paying attention to my energy in a way I never had before.

Not just "Am I tired?" but "What kind of tired am I?" Not just "Can I focus?" but "What does my brain actually want to focus on right now?"

I noticed that I had more creative energy in the morning, but only if I didn't check my phone first. That I could handle difficult conversations better after I'd moved my body. That some days my brain craved structure, and other days structure felt like a cage.

I started writing these observations down—not in a productivity planner or habit tracker, but in something quieter. A simple notebook where I could track the subtle rhythms I'd never paid attention to before. What made me feel energized versus what made me feel drained. When my brain wanted to create versus when it needed to rest.

When I Stopped Trying to Be Productive

Six months into recovery, I decided to try something radical: What if I stopped trying to be productive?

Not forever. Just for two weeks. Instead of optimizing my schedule or tracking my habits, I would just... exist. Do what felt good. Rest when I was tired. Work when I felt like working.

It was terrifying.

My brain immediately started catastrophizing. What if I never wanted to work again? What if I lost all my momentum? What if I was just making excuses for being lazy?

But something beautiful happened in week two.

I started getting curious about things again. I read an entire book in one sitting—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I spent three hours redesigning my website just for fun. I called a friend I hadn't talked to in months.

My energy wasn't the frantic, caffeinated energy I'd been chasing for years. It was quieter. More sustainable. Actually mine.

What Recovery Actually Looks Like

I wish I could tell you that after a year, I'm completely "healed" from burnout.

But that's not how it works.

What I can tell you is that I'm learning to work with my ADHD brain instead of against it. That I'm building a business that actually fits my energy patterns instead of forcing myself to fit someone else's productivity template.

Some days I still feel like I'm moving through molasses. Some days I still miss the intensity of my pre-burnout hyperfocus.

But I also have something I never had before: trust in my own rhythm.

I know now that my brain needs more variety than most people's. That I do my best work in short, intense bursts with long breaks in between. That my creativity is seasonal, and fighting the fallow periods only makes them longer.

The Becoming Part

The weird thing about recovery is that you don't go back to who you were before.

You become someone new.

Someone who knows the difference between sustainable intensity and unsustainable desperation. Someone who can recognize the early signs of overwhelm and actually do something about it. Someone who understands that rest isn't the opposite of productivity—it's what makes productivity possible.

I'm still in the blurry space sometimes. Still figuring out what this version of me is capable of. Still learning to be patient with the process.

But I'm not the same person who burned out two years ago. And I'm grateful for that.

If You're in the Blurry Space Too

Maybe you're reading this from your own in-between place. Maybe you're tired of people asking if you're "feeling better" when you're not sure what "better" even means anymore.

Maybe you're wondering if you'll ever feel like yourself again, or if this foggy, uncertain version of you is all that's left.

Here's what I wish someone had told me: The blurry space isn't a waiting room. It's not a place you're stuck until you're "ready" to be productive again.

It's where the real work happens. The quiet, invisible work of learning who you are when you're not performing. Of discovering what you actually want when you're not running on adrenaline and external validation.

It's where you learn to trust your own pace.

And that's not a small thing. That's everything.

(If you're curious about the simple energy tracking approach I mentioned earlier—the notebook that helped me start listening to myself again—I'm happy to share what that looks like. It's nothing fancy, but it changed how I understand my own rhythms.)

The becoming is just as important as the recovery. Maybe more important.

Because the person you're becoming—the one who honors their energy, who knows their limits, who works with their brain instead of against it—that person is worth the wait.

Even if it takes longer than you thought. Even if it looks different than you expected.

Even if it's messy and non-linear and nothing like the transformation stories you see on social media.

Your becoming is still becoming. And that's enough.