New Year, New Rhythms: Choosing Rest Over Relentless Productivity
Why Rest is a Revolutionary Act in a World That Demands Exhaustion
As the calendar year draws to a close, I find myself in the rare position of being able to rest. As a public school teacher in the United States, I am afforded the winter holiday off from work. This time is essential for me, not only because the demands of teaching are relentless but also because, as an elder autistic person, the need for genuine rest runs deeper. There’s a widespread perception that teachers get an abundance of paid holiday time, but the truth is far less generous. My “paid” time off is the result of a system where I work ten to twelve-hour days during the school year, only to take home the equivalent of six hours’ pay. The difference is withheld, banked to cover the school holidays and breaks. In essence, I am funding my own reprieve from the relentless grind.
This personal rhythm of overwork mirrors the broader systems that define the world we inhabit. Modern capitalism, dominated by corporations like BlackRock, State Street, and Vanguard, echoes the colonial empires of Britain, France, and the Netherlands in both structure and intention. These entities, wielding enormous influence as majority shareholders of countless publicly traded companies, operate like empires of old—marking out territories, extracting resources, and consolidating power. Their domination is no longer geographical but economic and systemic, carving up industries and markets as colonial powers once carved up continents. The resources they extract are no longer just land and labour but time, energy, and even the capacity to rest.
For someone like me, navigating this world feels profoundly foreign. The systems around us are built on prioritising “having” over “being,” demanding proof of productivity, credentials, and external markers of value, all of which stand in opposition to my autistic nature. I come from a place I think of as Værensland, the land of being, where worth isn’t tied to output or possessions but is intrinsic. Yet here I am, an expat in the land of having, expected to perform, produce, and justify my existence at every turn. In this context, rest becomes more than a personal necessity—it becomes a rebellion. To rest is to refuse the demands of a system that thrives on extraction, to reclaim a space where being is enough, and to challenge the structures that would see even our downtime commodified and controlled. Rest is not merely a pause; it is resistance against a framework that sees every moment of stillness as an opportunity lost to capital.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and as I sit in this rare stillness, I find myself reflecting on an incredible year—both personal and political, though as if there’s truly any separation between the two. This year has seen profound changes in my life, from the ongoing journey of living authentically as an autistic and transgender woman to the relentless political storms that make existence itself feel like an act of defiance. The personal and the political are entwined, inseparable threads of the same fabric, each informing and shaping the other. The struggles I face as an individual—navigating systems not built for people like me, fighting for space to rest, to be—are mirrored in the larger battles against the forces of oppression and extraction. Yet even amidst the chaos, there have been moments of clarity, connection, and resistance, reminding me that every act of self-preservation is inherently political in a world that demands so much from those who refuse to conform. As the year turns, I carry with me both the weight of these struggles and the hope of what lies ahead, grounded in the knowledge that even rest is a radical act of reclamation.
Autistic Identity as Foreignness in the Land of Having
I often think of myself as an expat from Værensland, the land of being—a place where worth is intrinsic, untethered from productivity or external validation. In Værensland, knowledge exists for its own sake, growing from the joy of curiosity and deep dives, a natural expression of autistic hyper-focus. There, to be knowledgeable is to have followed the threads of fascination wherever they lead, not to accumulate credentials or status but to savour the journey itself. This stands in stark contrast to the land of having, where I now reside, where knowledge is valued only if it can be measured, commodified, or exploited for profit. In this foreign land, I find myself forever out of place, holding treasures of understanding that the system deems useless because they resist monetisation.
Capitalism imposes structures that feel deeply alien to me as an autistic person. Its relentless focus on outputs and metrics reduces human worth to what can be produced, packaged, or sold. In workplaces and schools, the demand for constant verbal communication—a currency of social and professional exchange—is both exhausting and exclusionary. For those of us who think and process in different rhythms, who find joy in things capitalism cannot commodify, there is no place in its rigid framework. Our joy in the intricacies of a topic, our ability to connect seemingly disparate ideas, and even our ways of resting and recovering hold no value to a system that prioritises profit over humanity. What cannot be extracted or exploited is dismissed as irrelevant or, worse, burdensome.
This alienation reminds me of how colonial systems once imposed their own norms on Indigenous peoples, erasing communal practices and natural rhythms. Just as capitalism devalues autistic ways of being, colonial powers dismissed Indigenous cultures as impediments to progress, branding them as primitive or savage to justify their destruction. The communal rest and connection that Indigenous societies often cherished were reframed as laziness, much as capitalism frames non-productivity as failure. These same systems demonised those who resisted—then and now—as barriers to advancement, unable or unwilling to assimilate into the “proper” way of living.
In many ways, the treatment of autistic people in capitalist systems mirrors this colonial narrative. Autistic ways of engaging with the world—our joy, our depth, our unconventional rhythms—are treated as impediments to progress, as inefficiencies to be corrected rather than celebrated. We are asked to mask, to conform, to adapt to a world that sees no value in the things we hold dear. Yet, much like those who resisted colonial erasure, we carry within us the knowledge that there is another way to exist, one where being is enough, where worth is not tied to what we produce but to the simple fact of our existence. In holding onto this truth, we resist the forces that would seek to erase or exploit us, reclaiming our place in the world not as obstacles to progress but as reminders of its deeper possibilities.
Rest as a Radical Act for Autistics
Rest is not a luxury for autistic people; it is a fundamental necessity for survival. Living in a world that constantly bombards us with sensory and social demands means that without adequate rest, our systems simply cannot function. When we are unable to retreat and recharge, the cumulative toll often results in meltdowns or shutdowns—moments when the weight of overstimulation becomes too much to bear. These are not failures of self-control or discipline; they are our bodies’ way of enforcing a boundary that the world refuses to respect. For us, rest is the difference between being able to engage meaningfully and being consumed by exhaustion.
Yet capitalism’s idea of rest couldn’t be further removed from what we need. Rest is often framed as something to be purchased—a commodity offered through wellness apps, self-care products, or luxury retreats. It is treated as an indulgence for those who can afford it, rather than an innate human right. This commodification transforms rest into yet another form of labour, requiring planning, spending, and the performance of relaxation. For autistic people, this approach is not only inaccessible but also antithetical to our needs. What we crave is unstructured, non-transactional downtime: moments where we can simply exist without the pressure to achieve, justify, or perform.
In my own life, finding true rest is often a struggle. Sensory-friendly spaces are rare, and the emotional labour of masking—the effort required to present as neurotypical—makes even supposedly restful environments fraught with tension. A quiet park might seem like a perfect place to recharge, but the unpredictability of loud noises, crowds, or invasive questions from strangers can quickly turn it into yet another source of stress. Even at home, the demands of maintaining a household or meeting others’ expectations can encroach on the moments of stillness I so desperately need.
Rest for me is often found in the rare pockets of solitude where I don’t have to explain myself or adapt to the world around me. It is sitting in silence, letting my thoughts wander without interruption. It is stepping away from the relentless need to process language, whether spoken or written. Most importantly, it is the freedom to let my mind and body reset on their own terms, without the imposition of schedules or expectations.
For autistic people, true rest is radical because it defies the capitalist framework that sees every moment as an opportunity for productivity. It is an assertion that our worth is not tied to what we produce but to our right to simply exist. Rest is not an indulgence; it is a reclaiming of our humanity in a world that constantly demands we give more than we can.
Capitalist Barriers to Autistic Rest
Capitalism constructs countless barriers to rest for autistic people, turning what should be a basic human need into an unattainable luxury. One of the most insidious ways it does this is through commodification. Weighted blankets, noise-cancelling headphones, and sensory tools—items often essential for autistic regulation—are marketed as “solutions” for our needs but come with hefty price tags. Their cost makes them inaccessible to many, particularly in a system where we are already economically marginalised. Worse, these products do nothing to address the systemic barriers that create the need for such tools in the first place. A weighted blanket might help calm a dysregulated body at home, but it cannot make workplaces, schools, or public spaces less overwhelming.
The exclusionary practices of capitalism extend far beyond products. Workplaces and schools are rarely designed with autistic needs in mind, forcing us to overexert ourselves simply to survive. For those rare institutions willing to provide accommodations, the process is labyrinthine and invasive. Proof of diagnosis serves as the gatekeeper, and even with that in hand, it is often just the beginning. Increasingly, we are required to present detailed documentation from our care teams describing exactly how a space affects us and proposing specific accommodations. Only after navigating these hurdles might we gain access to the adjustments we need—if the request isn’t deemed too expensive or impractical. For many, these barriers mean exclusion from opportunities altogether, whether through outright rejection or the quiet but deliberate refusal to hire or admit someone whose needs challenge the status quo (thus the over 80% unemployment rate for autistics who can and want to work).
Even when we are included, capitalism’s emphasis on individualism isolates autistic people from the communal support essential for true rest. The pressure to “go it alone,” to mask or conform, drives many of us into solitude—not because we want to be alone but because the alternative is too exhausting or unsafe. This forced isolation echoes the way colonial systems fractured Indigenous communities, breaking apart networks of mutual care and support. Just as colonisers separated individuals from their tribes and traditions, capitalism isolates us from one another, leaving us to navigate an unaccommodating world without the shared understanding and connection that make rest possible.
For autistic people, the absence of communal spaces where we can rest and recover without judgment is particularly devastating. Rest becomes another act of survival, something we must fight for in a system that devalues it. Glasser’s Choice Theory Safety Need comes to mind here: we do not isolate ourselves out of choice but out of necessity, retreating to environments where we can feel safe from the relentless demands of a world that refuses to meet us halfway. Like the colonised who were alienated from their communities, we are left to navigate oppressive systems alone, our rest fragmented and conditional, rather than restorative and whole. Capitalism does not just deny us rest—it denies us the connections and accommodations that make rest meaningful.
Reclaiming Rest as a Communal and Revolutionary Act
Rest, for autistic people, is more than recovery—it is a return to the land of being, a place where worth is not tied to productivity or measured against capitalist metrics. In the land of being, rest exists as an integral part of life, not something to be earned or commodified. It is this vision of rest I explored in In the Stillness of Chaos, where the simple act of existing without explanation becomes a radical reclamation of self. For autistic people, reclaiming rest means creating spaces where we can reconnect with our authentic rhythms, free from the relentless demands of conformity. It is a communal act, a shared space of understanding and support that stands in stark contrast to the isolating individualism of capitalism.
In autistic-friendly, community-based spaces, rest transforms from an act of survival into an opportunity for connection. These spaces—whether virtual or physical—allow us to be together without masking or adapting to neurotypical expectations. They prioritise sensory-friendly environments, unstructured time, and the freedom to simply exist as we are. In these spaces, rest is not transactional but shared, a collective act of care and belonging. Such places are rare in the capitalist world, where rest is sold as a luxury rather than a necessity, but they hold the potential to redefine how we approach both community and rest.
The act of reclaiming rest is also a rejection of capitalist values. In a system that views time and energy as resources to be extracted, choosing to rest is a refusal to play by the rules. It is an embrace of autistic authenticity—the joy we find in our unique ways of being, thinking, and connecting. Rest becomes a revolutionary act, a statement that we will not allow our value to be defined by what we produce or consume. In choosing to rest, we assert our right to exist on our terms, not as cogs in the capitalist machine but as whole and complex individuals.
This vision of communal rest reminds me of the Mittagspause I experienced whilst living in Germany in the 1990s. For those unfamiliar, the Mittagspause (mid-day break) is a midday break, often lasting several hours, when businesses close, and people step away from work to recharge. It wasn’t just about eating lunch; it was a time to pause, nap, reconnect with family or friends, and savour life without the pressures of productivity. This practice, much like the extended holidays and shorter workweeks many Europeans enjoy, stands in stark contrast to the relentless grind of American capitalism. Americans often mock these traditions, painting Europeans as “lazy” for daring to take long breaks and holidays, as if valuing rest and well-being were somehow a moral failing.
Yet, these moments of pause allowed for more than physical recovery—they provided a sense of emotional and communal grounding that is often missing in capitalist systems. The Mittagspause wasn’t just about stepping away from work; it was about stepping into connection, whether with others, the environment, or oneself. Much like the communal practices of pre-colonial matristic societies, these pauses reinforced bonds, restored spirits, and allowed life to flow in a rhythm more aligned with human needs. Similarly, autistic people thrive in environments where rest and understanding are interwoven into the fabric of daily life. Instead of isolating ourselves in exhaustion, we too could benefit from reclaiming rest as an essential part of our existence—an act of care and connection, not a fleeting indulgence.
To rest communally as autistic people is to reject the isolating forces of capitalism and the relentless drive for productivity. It is to reclaim a space where our authenticity is celebrated, our needs are met, and our worth is recognised as inherent. In these moments of shared rest, we find not only respite but also the foundation for a new way of being—one that honours the interconnectedness of rest, community, and humanity itself.
Final thoughts …
Rest is not an individual luxury; it is a collective, revolutionary act. In a world driven by capitalist and colonial frameworks that seek to extract every ounce of labour and time from us, choosing to rest is a refusal to comply. It is a declaration that we are more than what we produce, more than what can be commodified or measured. True rest, free from the constraints of exploitation, demands systemic change. Policies like shorter workweeks, universal basic income, and the creation of open, accessible public spaces are essential. These ideas, rooted in a degrowth mindset, challenge the relentless pursuit of growth and profit, prioritising human and environmental well-being instead. They are not indulgences; they are necessities.
Cultural shifts are equally vital. We must move away from valuing having over being, output over authenticity. Rest allows us to reconnect with who we are, not who we are told to be. For autistic people, this means honouring our natural rhythms, our unique ways of engaging with the world, and our need for communal support. For neurotypical people, it means dismantling the structures that perpetuate burnout and alienation. Rest, when embraced collectively, has the power to transform not just individuals but entire communities, fostering connections that capitalism and colonialism work tirelessly to sever.
To rest is to resist. It is to reclaim a right stolen by systems that thrive on our exhaustion. It is to say, “I will not be reduced to a resource to be mined.” I invite you—whether autistic, neurotypical, or anywhere in between—to join in this act of resistance.
As the year comes to an end and a new one begins, I find myself hoping for a year where rest is no longer seen as a retreat from the world but as a step toward reshaping it. Let this be the year we choose community over competition, self-acceptance over self-optimisation. Together, we can begin to disrupt the exploitative frameworks that have held us captive for far too long and imagine a world where simply being is enough. Rest is not the end of the struggle—it is where we gather the strength and clarity to face what comes next. In this turning of the western calendar, I hold onto the hope that rest, for all of us, can become not just an act of survival but a foundation for something revolutionary.