Why Neurodivergent Kids’ Bodies Go On Strike – And What Not Masking Means For Parents
The crumpled 5th grade math worksheet is sticking out of my son’s backpack by the front door, and it’s already 12 minutes past the time we need to leave for school. My 10-year-old, who is autistic, is leaning against the entryway wall, socks slipping down his ankles, hands clamped tight over his ears. “My legs won’t move,” he says. His voice is so quiet I almost miss it. “They’re on strike.”
The entryway rug still has a coffee stain from my spilled oat latte last Tuesday, and the neighbor’s leaf blower is roaring down the block, so I get why his nervous system is shot. A year ago, I would’ve been already ramping up: C’mon, just pull yourself together, we can’t be late again, you’re fine. I would’ve helped him yank his boots on, talked him past the shutdown, reminded him how good he is at “fitting in” when he tries.
For three years, he tried really hard. He learned to sit still on the rug during circle time even when the tag of his shirt rubbed his neck raw. He learned to answer when the teacher called his name even when his throat felt thick and his brain was too overloaded to form words. He learned to tuck his hands into his pockets instead of flapping them when he got excited, because other kids stared. His teachers told me he was “doing amazing,” that he was such a “well-adjusted” autistic kid. And I bought it. I was proud of him for fitting in. I didn’t see the cost.
The first strike was a random Wednesday in October, when he couldn’t get out of the car after drop off. He just sat there, curled into a ball, crying, saying he couldn’t make his body go in. I called the pediatrician, thought it was appendicitis or a virus. By the time we got to the doctor’s office, all the symptoms were gone. It happened again the next week, and the next. A therapist I see for my own ADHD burnout said something that stuck with me: “When you mask for long enough, your nervous system unionizes. It calls a strike. No more work, no more pretending, until the working conditions get better.”
I tested that idea a week later at the grocery store. We were in the checkout line, the fluorescent lights were buzzing, and the cashier was talking really loud, and suddenly he started rocking back and forth on his heels, humming so loud the people in line behind us turned to look. I used to grab his arm, quiet him, tell him to stand still. That day, I just shifted my grocery cart a little to block him from view, leaned against the rail next to him, and waited. After two minutes, he stopped, took his hands away from his face, and said, “Okay, I’m done. My shoulders don’t hurt anymore.”
That’s when I realized: this isn’t a tantrum. It’s a protest against the constant effort of being someone he’s not to make other people comfortable. And I started making small, low-effort changes that have made a huge difference for us. First, I changed the question I ask. Instead of “What’s wrong with you?” or “Can you just try a little harder?” I say, “What is your body telling you right now?” It sounds small, but it shifts everything from him being in trouble to him being the expert on what he needs. Second, I added 10 unstructured minutes to every morning before we leave the house. No schedules, no reminders, just him doing whatever his body wants: jumping on the mini trampoline in the backyard, flapping his hands while he watches his favorite short clip, picking at a fidget blanket, whatever. That 10 minutes cut our strike rate by more than half. Third, we worked with his teacher to get a no-questions-asked pass: if he feels his body starting to tighten up, he can leave class, go sit on the bean bag in the counselor’s office for five minutes, no note, no excuse needed.
People ask me sometimes why I’m not embarrassed that he does this, why I don’t push him to just mask a little more for the sake of everyone else. I tell them I know what happens when you ignore your body’s strikes for decades. I spent my whole 20s masking my own ADHD: forcing myself to sit through long meetings, faking small talk, pushing through exhaustion until I ended up in bed for a week with a migraine that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t even name what I needed, because I’d spent so long training myself not to listen. My son isn’t there yet. When his body strikes, he’s not being lazy or defiant. He’s setting a boundary. He’s saying he won’t burn himself out for other people’s comfort. That’s something to be proud of, not something to fix.
Today, after 15 minutes of leaning against the wall, I sat down on the stained rug next to him. I said we could skip math, stay home, and build his new Lego rocket ship if that’s what his body needed. He didn’t argue. We spent the morning on the living room floor, him sorting bricks, me answering work emails on the couch. By lunch, he was running around the backyard chasing our cat, his legs working just fine. We got an automated email from the school front office after lunch, reminding us that unexcused absences count toward truancy. My mom texted me to ask if I wasn’t worried he was falling behind.
I still have those 2 a.m. panics, wondering if I’m doing this wrong, if I’m setting him up to struggle later. But then he came inside just now, wiped his grass-stained hands on his sweatshirt, and said, “Thanks for letting my legs strike today. They feel better now.” That’s enough for me. We’ll figure out the rest one strike at a time.
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