Taking Care of Yourself as an Autistic Educator

When I first stepped into the classroom, I was certain of two things: I loved teaching, and I had no idea how to sustain the work.

As an autistic educator, I found that my passion for structured learning, my ability to hyperfocus on topics, and my love of building student connections were my greatest strengths and my quickest path to burnout. My lesson plans and IEPs (individualized education programs) looked like novels, I agonized over unspoken social dynamics in meetings, and I often worked until my senses were frayed, never touching my lunch until I got home. I thought exhaustion was part of the job until I realized I couldn’t help my students if I wasn’t helping myself, too. 

Since starting my teaching career, I’ve learned to use three strategies that help me care for myself as an autistic educator. While I hope my neurodivergent colleagues find these strategies particularly helpful, I think all educators can benefit.

1. Recognize Your Sensory Limits

Classrooms are a sensory minefield: students talking at all different voice levels, chairs scraping, pens clicking, books dropping, unpredictable announcements, and let’s not forget the high-pitched hum of fluorescent lights.

At first, I would push through until I’d crash. I would make it through the day, but once I got home, it would take hours, sometimes the whole evening, for me to recover. Now, I proactively try to adjust to my environment.

To limit sensory input, I wear noise-reducing earplugs throughout the day. I find a quiet space to decompress during lunch, often wearing soundproof headphones. I try my best not to be absorbed in a task and actually take time to eat. I also offer to support the “quiet or break room” during pep rallies or whole school assemblies, supporting students with sensory sensitivities while also allowing myself to avoid a potential shutdown after work because the situation is overstimulating.

2. Learn to Unmask

Throughout the day, I would suppress my autistic traits to fit into neurotypical expectations. This drained me more than any workload. Slowly, I gave myself permission to be my authentic self.

I now stim (repetitive movements used to self-soothe) openly. I use a handheld fidget. I can also be seen snapping my fingers as I walk down the hallway or tapping my fingers on my legs. This not only helps me, but also helps students feel more comfortable stimming in front of their peers.

I now find ways to replace eye contact with alternatives. After years of forcing eye contact that left me distracted and drained, I permitted myself to engage differently. Now, I don’t force myself to make eye contact. I look elsewhere when talking, such as my notes or slides, or to the side of someone’s face, or I sit down with someone side by side.

Taking away the direct pressure of eye contact has benefited students, too. For example, when engaging in restorative conversations, I choose to sit side by side with the student rather than directly across from them. This simple shift has helped lessen anxiety, improved everyone’s listening skills, and allowed conversations to flow more organically. Additionally, during presentations, I have reassured students that not making eye contact is OK, which has added a layer of safety and comfort for students.

When I am confused, need clarification, or find myself wondering about what someone said or a social dynamic I might have missed, I now seek out support from trusted mentors or peers. While it’s not always easy to ask for help, especially at work, I’ve learned the importance of leading with transparency and vulnerability, modeling emotional intelligence and self-awareness for my students. Talking with a trusted person also helps me feel less misunderstood, which is something many autistic people feel because we communicate differently than our neurotypical peers.

Each of these actions has helped reduce my cognitive load, freeing my energy for teaching. They also help dismantle the stigma around needing assistance, guidance, or a community for my students and peers, challenging neurotypical behaviors within the classroom and the larger school community.

3. Share Your Experience with Students

I am open with my students about my needs and accommodations, and I explicitly teach my students to advocate for themselves. We talk about how to identify our needs, and we explore different tools and strategies. We also learn how engagement in special interests can help us self-regulate and prevent burnout. Students practice using tools, such as a timer or a fidget, for a specific time frame, and then we assess and reflect on how it went. Students are more honest with me and willing to be vulnerable about whether the tool or strategy works because they see that I, too, use tools and strategies to help me.

Once students have strategies that work for them, we practice how to share their needs with others. We role-play conversations and scenarios where students might need to self-advocate with peers and adults. We talk about some of the challenges they may face, like a peer making fun of them for using a sensory tool, or a teacher dismissing their request for an accommodation or preferred strategy. We also talk about reframing obstacles as problem-solving opportunities. Equipping students with self-advocacy skills empowers them to take ownership over their learning and helps prepare them for challenges outside of the school setting.

When we honor our needs as educators, we become the teachers our students actually need. This is the quiet rebellion of sustainable teaching. The revolution is in the spaces we dare to claim, where our authentic selves aren’t just allowed or tolerated, but needed.