For most of my life, I believed — quietly, unquestioned — that energy was something you could always stretch a little further.
You get tired, you push.
You feel overwhelmed, you power through.
You rest later.
That belief is everywhere. It’s baked into how we talk about work, productivity, motivation, even self-care. Try harder. Be disciplined. Recharge on the weekend.
But that story breaks the moment energy becomes finite in a way you can’t negotiate with.
Recently, someone very close to me was diagnosed with ME/CFS. Watching that diagnosis land was sobering in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Not just because of the illness itself, but because of how invisible it is — and how poorly our everyday systems understand it.
At the same time, I’ve been learning to better understand myself as a neurodivergent person. And while the experiences are different, something clicked almost immediately:
the shared reality of limited capacity.
The myth of “just doing less”
We often frame energy issues as a matter of balance:
“Just do a bit less.”
“Listen to your body.”
“Prioritise better.”
That advice assumes a stable baseline. It assumes that if you rest enough, things reset.
But for many people, that’s not how it works.
For people with ME/CFS, energy isn’t something you “run low on” — it’s something that can disappear entirely if you cross an invisible line. And the consequences don’t always show up immediately. You can feel “okay” in the moment and pay for it days later.
For many neurodivergent people, capacity is just as real and just as fragile — but it drains in different ways. Cognitive load. Social masking. Sensory overload. Decision fatigue. You can look functional on the outside while your internal system is already maxed out.
In both cases, the problem isn’t motivation.
It’s systems that assume unlimited energy.
What we’re missing: language for limits
One of the hardest parts of both chronic illness and neurodivergence isn’t the fatigue itself — it’s the lack of shared language around limits.
How do you explain to someone that:
- today’s “no” isn’t emotional, it’s structural?
- doing one small thing might mean doing nothing tomorrow?
- rest isn’t a reward, it’s damage control?
Without language, people default to guilt.
Without tools, people default to guessing.
Without understanding, people default to pushing.
And pushing is often exactly what causes harm.
I started building something — not to fix, but to notice
I’m a builder by nature. When I don’t understand something, I try to map it. When something feels chaotic, I try to give it structure.
I’m working on something right now — quietly, carefully — not because I think technology can solve chronic illness or neurodivergence, but because I think it can help us notice patterns before they hurt us.
The goal isn’t optimisation.
It’s permission.
Permission to stop before things break.
Permission to treat energy as finite — not failing.
Permission to say, “This was enough,” without having to justify it.
I’m building it because I’ve seen how devastating it is when limits are ignored — by systems, by workplaces, by well-meaning people, and by ourselves.
And I’m building it because I know how hard it is, as a neurodivergent person, to trust your own internal signals when the world keeps telling you they’re wrong.
This isn’t about doing more gently — it’s about doing less safely
There’s a subtle but important difference.
Many tools try to help you do more without burning out.
What’s missing are tools that help you not burn out in the first place — even if that means doing less.
That shift matters.
It reframes rest as strategy.
It reframes limits as information.
It reframes “low energy” days as data, not defeat.
I don’t have all the answers — but I know the problem is real
I’m not writing this as an expert.
I’m writing this as someone who’s learning — painfully, slowly — that energy is not universal, and that pretending otherwise causes real harm.
If this resonates with you, you’re not broken.
And if it doesn’t, I hope it still plants a seed of curiosity and empathy.
Some people live in a world where energy refills overnight.
Others don’t.
It’s time our tools — and our expectations — reflected that.