There is something I have noticed about my own body over the years that I did not have language for until relatively recently.
When I am deeply focused — really in it, working through something complicated — my jaw clenches. Not at night, not grinding, but a quiet, sustained holding. My hands press together. My legs cross and stay crossed. Sometimes my whole body stiffens slightly, as if bracing against something.
For a long time I thought this was just how concentration felt. I now notice these physical habits as part of how I focus and manage distraction. They have helped me feel more present at times, although I cannot assume that the same explanation fits everyone.
These are not problems. They are adaptations. And for years, they worked.
What I did not fully understand until I was navigating a back injury — and the particular complexity that comes when an already-braced nervous system suddenly has to learn the difference between focusing and being in danger — is what happens when those adaptations become the default, and then the default becomes a cost.
I wrote about discovering my ADHD diagnosis as an adult in an earlier post — Discovering ADHD as an Adult — and about some of the ways it shows up in daily life. What I want to explore here is something more specific: what can happen in the body when ADHD and burnout collide, and why the usual advice — rest more, slow down, take a break — can feel genuinely impossible rather than simply difficult.
People sometimes use the term ADHD burnout to describe exhaustion connected with managing ADHD alongside everyday demands. It is not a separate diagnosis, and experiences vary. For me, much of that exhaustion was hidden. Organized on the outside. Capable on the outside. Meeting expectations while quietly cycling through an internal pattern that looked something like: assess the task, feel overwhelmed by where to start, begin something, abandon it, assess again, feel the pressure mounting, change direction, press through.
And from what I hear in my practice, I am not alone in that.
That cycle feels exhausting to me in a way that can be hard to explain. The effort of repeatedly redirecting my attention adds up, and I often notice it as physical tension.
I have noticed that physical pressure sometimes helps me feel focused: pressing my hands together, crossing my legs firmly, or pressing my feet into the floor. I also notice jaw tension during concentration. These are observations about my own experience, rather than signs that identify ADHD.
These are somatic strategies. They work. They have worked for me for a long time.
What became complicated after my back injury was something I did not anticipate. My nervous system had patterns of muscle bracing that were, by that point, deeply habitual — woven into how I concentrated, how I coped, how I managed a busy day. And then suddenly, those same patterns were no longer neutral. Bracing, which had been a tool, was also now a source of pain. The muscles that had learned to stay ready — to stay on — did not have a clear signal to stand down.
I share this because a familiar way of coping can become uncomfortable when our circumstances change. My experience of pain and injury is personal, and pain deserves individual assessment.
Through a somatic lens, I explore what tension feels like, when it appears, and whether another way of responding feels more comfortable. This supports reflection without assuming a single cause for the tension.
In When Rest Doesn't Feel Restful, I wrote about sitting down while still feeling mentally busy or physically tense. In my experience, time off has not always felt like enough on its own. Adjusting demands, noticing tension, and finding support that fits my circumstances have also mattered.
Rest matters. For me, recovery has also involved looking at the demands I am carrying and the support available to me. There is no single route that will fit everyone.
At times, even a quiet evening leaves me feeling mentally busy or physically tense.
In somatic work, I sometimes explore sensations in small, manageable steps. This is one way of supporting awareness and comfort, alongside other approaches that may be helpful. As I wrote in Why Chasing Calm Can Sometimes Make Things Harder, I find it useful to begin with what feels approachable rather than forcing stillness.
For someone whose body has been bracing as a form of focus for most of their life, this is genuinely new learning. Not unlearning — the bracing served a purpose and still can. But expanding the repertoire. Learning that it is also possible to focus without holding. To arrive without clenching. To let the toes move without the whole body following.
In my work with clients across the Tri-Cities and online, I often begin here — not with the burnout as a concept, but with what is actually happening in the body in this moment. Where is the tension? What is it doing? What did it learn to do?
There is no homework to complete before you arrive. No particular way to show up. Just a curiosity about what your nervous system has been carrying — and a willingness to begin to listen to it differently.
These experiences vary and are not a way to identify or diagnose ADHD. Persistent exhaustion, pain, or sleep difficulties deserve individual assessment. If you would like to explore counselling support, I offer a free 20-minute phone consultation.
This post is for reflection and educational purposes. It is not a substitute for individual counselling, diagnosis, or medical advice.
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