The 12-Week Wall

On Staying

It’s 9 a.m. on Friday and I’m starting from Square One. The crash-out cycle has run its course. The dust has settled and I’m in a haze of mental clarity. I have been living my life on a quarterly crash-out cycle. My quarterly accounting spreadsheet neatly gives a sense of order not native to my brain. If only there were an Excel formula for knowing what’s next.

The cycle has a plot, and by now I’ve drafted each beat at least twenty-four times. Every cycle starts the same way. A new plan takes shape, and I’m already strategizing. Setting goals, mapping timelines, drafting the week-by-week breakdown. I’m elated. I tell my friends and family. Over the past four years, as the cycle has repeated, their enthusiasm has quietly dimmed. I can see it in their eyes. This is temporary. Have fun while it lasts.

Then I get to work. I buy what I need to do it right. My accounting spreadsheet is a graveyard of good intentions. This part, the part where I roll up my sleeves, lasts almost exactly three weeks. In college, I was a straight-A student for the first three weeks. Going to office hours, turning in assignments early, and reading deeply. Then week four arrived and catastrophe struck. Every time.

But if I make it past that first fork in the road, there’s a stretch of real momentum. Hours of focused work. Progress that feels like proof. This time is different. And then, gradually, it isn’t. Something shinier appears, or family plans are approaching, or I simply run out of steam. I start questioning whether the goal was ever realistic. Whether this is even what I want. Whether I’m wasting my time.

That’s the second fork. And historically, I take the exit.

And my friends, this Friday marks 12 weeks on Substack. I’m sticking with it.

I am proud of myself. I don’t say that easily or often. For a long time, the 12-week wall wasn’t something I named — I just kept finding myself on the other side of it, wondering what happened. Naming the cycle doesn’t make it disappear. But it did make it possible, finally, to see it coming and stay anyway. Autistic burnout can become manageable. You can recognize it earlier, and take care of whatever need isn’t being met, so you can get back to your goal.

I am proud of myself.

I haven’t stuck with something past the 12-week mark in about six years. That’s not a fun sentence to write. There’s a complicated shame that comes with being a person who starts things enthusiastically and publicly, and then quietly disappears from them. Mumbling it’s over is quieter than shouting you’ve begun. Quiet quitting. And you hope nobody noticed as much as you think they did.

I’ve watched people build the same thing for years. The same job, the same hobby, the same creative project. I genuinely don’t know what that feels like. How can everyone else just keep going?

It’s not laziness. It’s not a lack of passion or direction. It feels like that. But really it’s autistic burnout. My burnout cycle is unfortunately really short. 12 weeks is rarely enough time to find success with anything. I typically quit before I even understand what I should be doing.

I don’t want to live like this forever. Substack is the project where I’m testing my own growth. I want to do it for as long as it makes sense — the same thing I told the postpartum nurse when she asked about breastfeeding. Ideally, I’ll be posting these weekly Friday essays for at least 1 year.

This essay is due today. I’m writing it today — which isn’t usually how I operate, but this week had other plans. Appointments, a calendar full of obligations, and a house that needed deep-cleaning. I ran the Little Green Machine across the couch and told myself I could still think while I cleaned. And somewhere between the countertops and the dishes, I noticed something: I’d been putting off the computer all week. Cleaning felt urgent. Writing felt avoidable. I recognized the pattern before I could name it. The 12-week wall was here.

I’ve had to keep an open mind about how long it might take to build something I’m proud of. My initial goal wasn’t concerned with reach and the associated stats. I wanted a portfolio of my finest quality of writing that would tell my story.

I’ve spent a lot of time making peace with the pivot. Turns out I also needed to make peace with just... not pivoting. I was surprised this was harder.

I’m curious — do you experience a cycle like this? It doesn’t have to look exactly like mine. Maybe yours shows up with hobbies, or side projects, or even just the rhythm of how you take care of yourself. I’d love to know.

This one is personal, and I know not everyone wants to go deep in the comments. You don’t have to. Just letting me know I’m not alone would be enough.

-Catherine

A few housekeeping things: I’m opening up more content to free subscribers, so if you’ve been lurking — welcome, stay a while. If you want something more personal, Pen Pal Premium gets you a real letter from me each month, written specifically to you after a short survey. And if you just want to say thanks, buying me a coffee always means a lot.