Sometimes, starting is the hardest part, even for things I want to do.
A teenage dinner-table mystery
I can still picture it: teenage me, deeply absorbed in something (usually related to computers). My mum’s voice comes from the kitchen:
“Dinner’s ready!”
I don’t move.
She calls again. Still nothing. I’m not ignoring her on purpose. It’s like my feet are glued to the floor. Dinner gets cold, but for some reason, she doesn’t get angry. Looking back, I think she knew, in her own way, how I worked — even if neither of us had the words for it yet. There was no “autistic inertia” in her vocabulary, but there was patience.
Then one day, she changes her approach:
“We’re going to eat in 10 minutes.”
And somehow… I get up. No argument. No delay. Just… movement.
At the time, I couldn’t explain why the first method failed and the second worked. Now I know: it wasn’t defiance, laziness, or lack of hunger. It was my brain needing a runway before switching tasks.
What autistic inertia is — briefly
Autistic inertia is the difficulty starting, stopping, or switching tasks — even ones you want to do. It’s not about willpower. It’s a neurological initiation barrier.
For me, the 10-minute warning worked because it gave my brain space to finish its current “track” and prepare for the next. No abrupt jolt, no mental whiplash.
Here’s a great article that explains it in more detail with several examples → link.
How it’s shaped my life
Even now, my days begin with a slow boot sequence:
- Half an hour awake in bed before moving at all.
- Hunger or thirst finally gets me up.
- Then comes my breakfast, a ritual in itself.
- At least an hour later am I “ready” to leave the house.
It doesn’t matter if I’m heading out for something I love. My daily micro-adventure cycling ritual (one of my biggest joys) can still start 3–4 hours later than I intended… unless my current environment feels boring, noisy or unsafe. In that case, I might start earlier than planned, because my system wants to escape sooner.
Boring or low-interest tasks are a different story. I’ll avoid them for as long as possible, this also applies to tasks that I can’t do to the standard I’d like. Sometimes I’ll even build elaborate detours around them, just to delay the start.
For years, I’ve some work-related “preferences”, such as avoiding rush hour, working from home, skipping urban commutes. In hindsight, they were self-accommodations that kept my inertia from turning into crisis.
And then there’s the hidden cost. I never felt stressed when I forced myself through inertia. Alexithymia (difficulty recognising emotions) meant I only sensed that something was “off,” without naming it. But later in the day, that invisible effort could tip me over the edge. A minor disruption might trigger a meltdown, panic, or sudden exhaustion — and I’d keep blaming myself for “overreacting” to the disruption itself, without realising the real cause was the silent load I’d been carrying all day. It appeared sudden but in fact wasn’t at all: it was the delayed bill for the unseen energy I’d already spent just getting going.
Since I discovered the term
Learning about autistic inertia was like finding a missing chapter in my own manual. I stopped blaming myself for “wasting time” or not jumping straight into action. I also stopped trying to force it, which, oddly enough, made the inertia feel stronger but made me far less stressed.
Now I can see the patterns: how monotropism (deep single-focus) makes task-switching harder, how ADHD procrastination loops make it easy to delay boring or imperfect tasks, how sensory regulation is essential before facing the outside world.
The trait itself hasn’t gone away, but I can design around it.
Living with it (and setting boundaries)
I’m learning to work with inertia instead of against it:
- Flexible schedules where possible.
- Runway cues (time warnings, small prep tasks) to ease transitions.
- Avoidance of high-risk contexts like rush-hour commutes or crowded events.
- Permission to pause, but also guardrails so inertia doesn’t quietly block things that matter.
It’s not about eliminating inertia. It’s about understanding the conditions that make starting possible while protecting the energy I’ll need for what comes next.
Closing thought
If I could go back to that teenage dinner table, I’d tell myself: One day you’ll understand why the 10-minute warning worked, and you’ll give yourself those runways on purpose.
I find it amazing that the “10-minute warning” trick works brilliantly for something low-stakes like dinner — but for a fixed-time appointment, it can have the opposite effect. The pressure of an exact time, plus all the logistics in between, spikes stress rather than easing it.
Because knowing the wiring means I can live with it, not despite it. I’m still experimenting with life hacks, rituals, and boundaries to keep a balance by giving my autistic inertia the space it needs, without letting it quietly take over the rest of my life.
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