Claire Burley: My Journey to Discovering Neurodivergence and Self-Compassion

I come from a family of hard workers. My mother grew up in poverty in Hong Kong to mainland Chinese immigrant parents who gave everything for her and my aunts and uncles. Along with her parents and her grit and determination, she’s become the brilliant and successful woman that she is today. My father came from a middle-class English family, shaped by post-war values — the kind where emotions weren’t discussed, and life was about getting on with it. In their own ways, they taught me the value of resilience. But when it came to mental health, we simply didn’t have the language.

At school, though, I didn’t fit the mould. In primary school, I was called disruptive — too chatty, too energetic, too much. Over time, I learned to mask that energy. I slowly became quiet, withdrawn, unconfident. By the time I reached secondary school, the light I’d once had felt dimmed. I was still being told I was smart but not trying hard enough, but the truth was: I was trying. I just didn’t understand why everything felt so hard.

But I found safety in movement and creativity. I didn’t know that I was neurodivergent. Sport and the arts became places where I could breathe, where I didn’t have to explain myself — just feel.

It’s taken me years to understand why those environments felt like home. Why my brain works the way it does. And why I always felt like I was running on empty, even when I was doing everything “right.” I’m sharing this now not because my journey is finished, but because I know there are others out there who are still trying to make sense of their own.

I want to emphasize as well, that what I am writing here is just the tiniest fraction of my story. It would take a whole novel to tell you everything, but I hope that those reading this will be able to take something away for themselves. 

Without a diagnosis or language for my experience, growing up, I internalized a lot of self-blame. I did everything to “try harder”, to be like everyone else, to be less me. I masked my struggles, and tried my best to win praise - but it all came at a cost to my mental health.

Burnout is nothing new to me. I think I’ve been in a permanent state of burnout since I was a child. It’s only in recent years have I discovered what burnout really is, and how long my entire nervous system had been in this state. Knowing that became the beginning of a very different kind of journey: one that wasn’t about striving or fixing, but about listening.

This eventually led to my ADHD diagnosis, and discovering my autistic traits too. I learned how important it is to name things. Getting diagnosed didn’t change who I was — it helped me understand why certain things felt so hard. And with that understanding came self-compassion. I began to build a more honest relationship with myself.

As I slowly began to understand my neurodivergence, I started learning how to advocate for myself. I learned that my brain worked differently — and that different didn’t mean broken. I learned that I could set boundaries, that I didn’t have to earn rest, that burnout wasn’t a personal failure

I want to be clear: this isn’t a story with a neat ending. I’m still working on myself. I still have days when things feel messy or hard. I still catch myself falling into old patterns, especially as a professional athlete. But I’m learning — constantly — and I’m getting better at showing up for myself with honesty instead of judgment.

Mental health isn’t something you “fix.” It’s something you nurture. It evolves as you do. I’ve learned to be curious about who I am, rather than critical. And every time I let go of the pressure to have it all together, I make room for something much more valuable: self-acceptance.