“Maybe You’re Just Not Trying Hard Enough

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,080 words I wish I could say I only heard this once. That it came from a one-off moment, a clueless stranger, a blip. But no. This one had range. It showed up in classrooms, kitchens, doctor’s offices, and group chats. Wrapped in fake concern or snide advice. And every time, it stung the same. “Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.”

Trying was never the problem. Trying is the one thing I’ve always done too much of. I tried when I was five and the lights in the grocery store burned my eyes. I tried when I was eight and couldn’t hold back tears when routines changed. I tried when I was twelve and lost hours redoing homework that was already done—because my brain wouldn’t let it go. I didn’t get gold stars for trying. I got labeled “dramatic,” “lazy,” “difficult,” or “gifted but unmotivated.” Pick one.

Here’s the thing people don’t get about being autistic: Trying doesn’t always look the way you expect. Sometimes it looks like silence. Like me staying quiet when I want to scream. Like me smiling when I want to run. Like me showing up when every cell in my body is begging me to hide. Trying looked like masking so well I fooled myself. Trying looked like adapting, adapting, adapting—until I had no idea what I actually needed. And when I finally collapsed, they told me I should’ve asked for help sooner. But when I did ask, I was told to try harder.

“Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough” was never a real suggestion. It was a dismissal. A fast way to make my discomfort someone else’s problem. You say you’re overwhelmed? Try harder. You say you can’t focus? Try harder. You say this thing hurts your brain or body or spirit? Try harder. It’s a magic phrase. Turns any real struggle into a personal failure.

I think people say it when they don’t understand your pain but don’t want to admit they don’t know what to do with it. It’s easier to doubt your effort than question the system. It’s easier to blame the person than admit the expectations might be wrong. Because if I’m “not trying hard enough,” then you don’t have to make room for how different my brain is. You don’t have to change the rules. You don’t have to slow down or listen closer or rethink anything. You just get to feel superior. And I get to feel broken.

I spent years internalizing it. Pushing past limits that weren’t made for me. Staying in jobs, relationships, and environments that required constant performance. Because I thought the problem was me. I wasn’t tough enough. Organized enough. Mature enough. Normal enough. When I was actually just exhausted. Not lazy. Not fragile. Not underachieving. Exhausted.

Being autistic with ADHD is like running a marathon on a treadmill that’s set for someone else’s stride. You’re working double just to keep pace. And when you finally stumble, someone shouts, “Maybe if you just lifted your knees higher…” I’ve tried more than most people will ever know. Tried to fit in. Tried to be less. Tried to make my extra manageable. But no one sees that kind of trying unless it explodes or disappears.

AWRYTE is where I stop pretending that wasn’t enough. This is the space for every meltdown mislabeled as laziness. Every shutdown mistaken for apathy. Every panic spiral written off as “not trying hard enough.” I’m done with that story. Trying isn’t the issue. Trying isn’t the fix. Trying harder than humanly possible was what almost broke me.

You know what actually helps? Being believed. Being supported without needing to collapse first. Being heard when I say, “This is hard,” even if I’m still smiling when I say it. Autistic people don’t need more pressure. We need room. Room to show up messy. Room to name what we need. Room to stop trying for everyone else long enough to hear ourselves.

If you’ve ever been told you’re not trying hard enough— I hope you know that’s not a measure of your worth. It’s a failure of their imagination. They couldn’t picture your effort. They didn’t see the energy it took to stay in the room. To speak when it hurt. To show up when everything in you said don’t. But I see it now. And I won’t unsee it again.

You’re not here to prove your pain. You’re not here to beg for basic understanding. You’re here. That’s enough. You’re AWRYTE.