Miles Johnson・25 March 2026
For my fifth birthday, I wanted the dessert to be an array of cupcakes, each one with a number written on it with icing. I arranged them in a three-sided shape, with each cupcake’s number being the sum of the two directly above it—Pascal’s triangle. Even before that time, I was already fascinated by numbers. I would read about numerical patterns from the triangular numbers to the Harmonic Series, and memorize Nim games to beat my brothers with.
When my family moved from Lilongwe to Tōkyō, my brain found even more patterns to discover. Every time we would make a trip to Genki Sushi or take a vacation in Nozawaonsen, I navigated the vast network of rail lines with ease, from the subway to the Shinkansen, using the dense system maps and the distinctive departure melodies to guide me.
I was an expert at visualizing motion and balance. I could pick just the right tree branch to hoist myself up to next. I could leap off a lifeguard stand and land gracefully in the sand. I could perfectly arrange thin Kapla blocks into towers that brushed our ceiling.
Alone, these patterns and motions simply came to me. I was in my element. As soon as it came to other people, though, I was lost. Everyone I talked to—my parents, my brothers, my classmates—had moods and motives that I was supposed to know but couldn’t read.
Through those same Tōkyō years, rather than sitting and talking during lunch, I would wander the school halls, reading the earthquake evacuation signs and searching for lost pencils, sometimes stepping outside into the fresh air. These quiet spaces were my only periods of stillness, in days where I was expected to withstand the constant noise and demands of classrooms.
At age 16, I was formally diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. Autism, for me, is a duality of struggles and strengths—parts of my life that coexist. My heightened sensory sensitivity, emotional turbulence, and difficulty with change are paired with capacity for profound empathy, rapid pattern recognition, and tenacious focus on my interests; among many other traits. While this balance is rather different from that of neurotypical people, it is highly valuable in its own way—both to the families and loved ones of autistic people and to society as a whole. The more severe difficulty for autistic people, including myself, comes when that balance gets upended.
When I was growing up, school days were shorter and academics were simpler, which meant I maintained a sustainable level of energy throughout the day. These energy reserves meant my nervous system could recover from the social and emotional strain through doing the things I loved. I had the capacity to climb barefoot to the swaying tops of trees or construct intricate marble runs in our basement.
But as academic demands increased, and I worked tirelessly to meet them, I began siphoning more and more energy away from the things which restored my equilibrium. Since the beginning of the Diploma Program, nearly every afternoon and weekend has meant dedicating some time to my studies—a trend that extended to the summer with the Extended Essay, and continued through Year 13 with a wave of IAs, college applications, and soon, final exams.
In these final, most grueling years, I have found my reserves are running out. I no longer have very much energy left for my passions; and once I pass a certain limit during the day, my capacity for schoolwork fails as well. I learned that this lack of energy is autistic burnout: a state of physical and mental exhaustion brought on by years of the school environment’s high sensory load, paired with its social and academic demands.
For me, autistic burnout means the duality of my strengths and struggles is out of balance. My anxiety rises and persists throughout much of the day; I’m no longer able to tolerate the construction noise at school or the hum of a restaurant without headphones; and sometimes the knowledge that’s up in my brain just can’t come down onto a page. As more of my time is taken from me, the remainder gets devoted to crucial recovery time—periods in a low-stimulation environment where nothing is asked of me.
Yet, I press on, pouring what energy I can into mastering physics concepts or perfecting projects like this very article. I tell myself that I’m approaching the summit. Deep down, I truly believe I will make it, and my loved ones are even more resolute. Accommodations, my caring family, and excellent teachers and learning support staff are what enable me to keep climbing even as the rockfall, wind, and altitude try harder and harder to break me down.
But beyond that, our schools, workplaces, and institutions are still in need of significant change for all people on the autism spectrum. Without a society that respects and includes us, all our ingenuity, passion, and empathy—the traits that shaped me into the person I am—will simply be lost.
On some of these days, I remember my fifth birthday party with its Pascal’s triangle of cupcakes and the kid I was back then, with so much still ahead of them: six different cities, dozens of new teachers, and countless assessments, papers, and exams. As these years come to a close, I look ahead to the next ones—the months and years where a chosen life of minimal stress and true balance allows the autistic burnout to fade, and my energy can flow back to the people and things I love once again.