I hear that voice in my head all the time. It sounds simple, even logical. But for someone like me—someone with PDA, or Pathological Demand Avoidance—it can be a trap. It’s not about being lazy. It’s not even about not wanting to do something. It’s about the pressure of expectations—external or internal—triggering such intense stress that avoidance feels like the only option.

That stress isn’t always visible. It builds up slowly. Sometimes the energy and effort required to do a task is so overwhelming that not doing it feels safer. And often, we’ve learned from experience that doing it wrong is worse than not doing it at all. When we do push through, only to be told we didn’t do it right, we carry that humiliation for a long time. Every task comes with mental calculations: Who’s watching? What are their expectations? What’s the risk of failure?

So I avoid. Or delay. I need time to think—time to process what I’m doing, and why. Can I copy what others are doing and just get through it? Yes. But then I second-guess everything afterward. If I didn’t fully think it through, I worry it will fall apart.

I know that most neurotypical—or allistic—people don’t face these hurdles every time they try to do something “simple.” And that knowledge causes real pain. I should be able to start this assignment, finish this marking, plan this lesson. But when it takes me hours to even begin, it’s easier to avoid it entirely. And even when I manage to catch up, it’s easy to fall back into the same cycle.

This usually starts when routines are disrupted. If a lesson plan I’ve worked hard on falls apart, I scramble to adapt. Plan A fails, then Plan B, then Plan C. Afterward, when I’m supposed to be marking or prepping for the next day, I get stuck. My brain fogs over. I can’t focus until I’ve figured out what went wrong. But I can’t figure that out because I’m still exhausted from all the quick changes. Small adjustments I can handle. Tossing the whole plan out the window? That’s draining.

And so, the backlog begins. I bring that pile of unmarked work home with me, too tired to process anything. If I push through the exhaustion and mark it anyway, I don’t have time to properly rework the next lesson. And then the cycle repeats. My planning suffers. I fall behind again. And I start to believe it’s all going to collapse.

Eventually, I begin to feel like I’m going to fail anyway. So why try?

I get anxious when I’m asked to speak with my administrators. If my principal or vice principal want to talk, I spiral. Even if they tell me what the meeting is about, it doesn’t matter. I assume I’ve screwed something up. I should have done it better. I should have anticipated this. I should have known.

That waiting period—the gap between the message and the meeting—can paralyze me. I can’t eat. I can’t mark. I can’t plan. I can print worksheets, maybe. But my brain is busy replaying everything I did wrong and everything I should’ve done differently. I’m sure my coworkers would’ve gotten it right. I’m sure they wouldn’t be in this situation.

And then come the mental spirals: Will I need to rework the month’s lessons? Add new homework? Change the layout of my classroom? I can’t do all of that—not when my mind is conjuring worst-case scenarios and I’m already emotionally maxed out.

Sometimes I try to force my way through it—just get the work done. But then I make mistakes. I mark things wrong. I prep the wrong materials. I’m not really processing what I’m looking at. So I have to redo it. Not once—three times—just to be sure it’s right. That’s three times the effort while in a state of brain fog caused by PDA and that ever-lingering impostor syndrome.

And even then, I’m full of questions: Is my feedback targeted enough? Is red pen okay? Should I correct every mistake, or will that demotivate the student? If I only correct the objective, will someone complain? Should I teach what the children need, or what the parents expect?

If I get called in for a meeting, I don’t feel like a professional—I feel like a child sent to the principal’s office. I don’t know what I did wrong. I just know I must have done something. I’m often on the edge of tears before the meeting even begins.

Two years ago, I did cry. Things were happening back in Canada that I couldn’t control. I was told I might lose my mother. So when I got called into the office, I broke down. I couldn’t stop.

Today, it happened again—though not quite the same. I had a meeting that turned out to be about nothing. But the anticipation had already locked me up. I nearly went mute. I couldn’t think clearly. I was trying so hard not to let anyone see how knotted up I was inside. A student asked me what was wrong, and I couldn’t answer. I later explained a little to my team lead, but I still couldn’t shake the thought that I’d somehow failed.

I got nothing done. No food. No marking. Just me, staring at the table for two hours, trying to get back on track.

If I freeze, avoid, or fall behind—it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I care too much. I’m running a mental marathon just to stay upright. Sometimes what I need most isn’t a solution, but space, patience, and the chance to catch my breath.