Burnout Isn’t a Personal Failing - It’s a Systemic One (Part One)

When the System Breaks You (And Then Blames You for It)

In the past six months, I’ve done things I once doubted I was capable of—coordinating public events, managing complex logistics, representing my organisation at strategic forums, and speaking in spaces I never thought I belonged.

The difference? A workplace that saw my potential, trusted my judgment, and gave me the scaffolding I needed to grow.

That contrast was at the heart of what I spoke about in April 2025, when I was invited to talk about the importance of creating safe, inclusive workplaces for disabled and neurodivergent employees at the GROW WA Inclusive Employment Forum .

My presentation drew on my lived experience  as an Autistic/ADHD employee in an environment that didn’t support my needs, and the impact this had on my wellbeing and sense-of-self.

Telling my story publicly wasn’t easy. It still isn’t.

Speaking out always comes with a cost: professionally, emotionally, or personally.

That’s especially true when you're already dealing with stigma and exclusion. And when you’ve internalised the fear of being seen as both “too much” and “not enough.”

There’s an unspoken rule that when you leave a workplace you should move on quietly. That speaking out about psychologically unsafe workplaces — particularly in public — is unprofessional, confrontational, or a sign of bitterness.

But sharing my story isn’t about assigning blame.

Speaking out - when it’s safe to do so - is about truth-telling, integrity, and ethical responsibility. Because silence doesn’t protect people—it protects systems.

In the words of Audre Lorde:

“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.”

So, I'm sharing my story to shed light on how organisational culture can erode mental health, diminish professional confidence, and undermine belonging—especially for disabled, neurodivergent, and otherwise marginalised staff.

And - also - because I've discovered first-hand the difference safe and inclusive environments make. When people are supported - and their voice is heard and respected - they don’t just survive, they expand. They take risks. They grow. And they thrive.

This blog is adapted from my presentation at the 2025 GROW WA Inclusive Employment Forum. It will also be published on the  Youth Disability Advocacy Network (YDAN) website as part of their commitment to disability justice,  leadership, and sector transparency

What happens when employers don’t provide a safe and inclusive workplace?

When  employers don’t create safe, inclusive workplaces it has a significant impact on people's sense of wellbeing and belonging

Especially when they say things like this:

These are real comments made by my former line manager. The leader of a disability organisation.

I’d love to say that comments like these were rare, and that I won’t hear them again.

But of course I will

Because the ableist assumptions behind them are deeply engrained in our systems.

Ableism is deeply engrained in our systems - the built environment, policies, and social and cultural ideas, including ideas of what makes someone “good” at their job.

Because non-disabled people generally move through these systems without friction it’s easy for them to believe that the system is fair. the environment works - that the expectations of productivity, communication and independence, are reasonable.

So when someone struggles to function - and says “this isn’t working for me” - it’s not the environment that’s questioned. It’s the person.

Non-inclusive environments and ableist ideals are key factors shaping employment outcomes for disabled and neurodivergent people

Navigating inaccessible systems. Having to constantly advocate for basic support. Feeling pressure to appear professional and avoid judgement by masking differences and difficulties

All of these lead to mental health decline, job disengagement, and burnout.

Which is exactly what happened to me.

Adrift in a Sea of Ableism

I was with my previous employer for 18 months and during that time and in that time I experienced  burnout twice.

Burnout didn’t come out of nowhere. It was the result of the accumulation of stressors that on their own - or with proper support - would have been manageable.

But together they created an environment where burnout was inevitable.

This is my attempt to show what that felt like.

I was adrift in a sea of ableism, facing a constant onslaught of sensory input, managing chronic pain conditions. And being a mum of 2 kids - both of them autistic/ADHD.

I could stay afloat - just - as long as the water remained relatively calm.

But, instead I got hit by wave after wave of workplace stressors

The waves were gradual at first.

There were standard workplace policies - none of them written with accessibility in mind - but no real processes or procedures (at least not ones that were documented)

Staff were discouraged from collaborating or supporting each other  - told  to  “stay in our lane”.

There was constant staff turnover (I had five different line managers in 12 months). I watched a steady stream of staff walk. Some after only a few weeks. Most of them without another job lined up.

And they kept on coming...

The organisation began shutting down service provision, making people redundant, and ending contracts.

Each time the message was: "there won't be any more re-structures". But within months, more changes were announced.

Any sense of trust or security, was gone.

And all of this was happening under the cloud of sector wide funding instability - creating job insecurity. We were expected to be grateful just to have a job Even if we didn’t know what the job involved anymore.

But the worst part was how all was managed.

Or rather, NOT managed.

People were expected to adapt with very little information  and no real support.

And if you couldn’t keep up with the changes?

That was on you.

.

But the wave that really knocked me under? The response to my requests for support

My requests weren’t huge

• information given to me in writing - not verbally

• To be allowed to communicate with my manager in writing instead of verbally

• A  position description outlining what my actual role involved

• For agendas and questions to be sent prior to meetings

• For processes and procedures to be clearly documented and made easily available

• For clearly communicated and consistent work expectations

• And - above all - for changes to be communicated clearly and respectfully. Including what the changes were, why they were happening, and when and how they would be implemented

But these were either refused, delayed, or inconsistently applied.

Support became something I had to fight for. And fight for again. And again.

I was desperately trying stay afloat. But by that point I could feel myself drowning.

Blaming me for not being able to weather the storm.

I experienced burnout for the first time in June. After months of navigating chaos and uncertainty I finally reached breaking point. 

I wrote a long, vulnerable email to the CEO (who was also my line manager) explaining exactly how the environment was impacting my health and  took three days off sick.

When I returned we had a meeting and I asked for accommodations to be put in place to support me. I was told they’d “try” but they couldn’t guarantee anything.

And they were never put in place.

Then, in October, after another round of structural changes and (again) months of me expressing my concerns about lack of clarity and support, I had a meltdown at work.

My meltdown came out in a burst of frustration venting voicing my dissatisfaction about the lack of communication, clarity and consistency within the organisation, raising my voice (not at anyone just about the situation), and swearing (not unusual in itself - swearing is part of my daily vocabulary, even in the office).

It happened in a private meeting room - not in the main office - and I was supported in that moment by 2 colleagues/friends.

But there was no support from the organisation.

Instead, my meltdown was framed as a behavioural issue. A personal failing. I was told :

“These behaviours aren’t aligned with the organisation’s values.”

“They’re not consistent with your seniority.”

“We need to evaluate whether this role is the right fit for you, given how these behaviours play out”

The message I received was loud and clear. 

You're the problem.

Not the chaotic environment. Not the unclear expectations. Not the lack of support.

And initially, I believed this.

I blamed myself.  For not being resilient enough. Not regulating properly. Not coping.

But - thankfully - a friend could see what (at the time) I couldn’t, reminding me that:

I wasn't the problem. The environment was.

He pointed out that if I’d been in a space where I felt genuinely heard, supported, and respected, I wouldn’t have been pushed to the edge.

And that what looked like a personal failing was actually the cost of surviving a system that wasn’t built for someone like me—and wasn’t willing to change, even when the harm was obvious.

In the next post, I’ll unpack some of the systemic and structural barriers that create these environments, and explore what needs to change so that disabled and neurodivergent people can thrive, not just survive, as employees and leaders.