For many autistic people, one of the biggest challenges we face isn’t finishing things, it’s starting them.
I want to move, achieve, and do the things that make me feel good, but sometimes my body won’t follow through. I sit frozen, frustrated, and guilty, unable to explain why. It wasn’t until after my autism diagnosis that I learned that this is autistic inertia. It refers to the difficulty in starting, stopping, or switching tasks - often feeling like an invisible roadblock. It's closely tied to executive functioning, the brain’s system for planning, prioritising, and initiating actions. When that system isn’t working as it should, the bridge between “I want to do this” and “I’m doing it” feels impossible to connect.
Inertia is the reason even things I love can feel impossible to begin. Discovering that my challenges had a neurological reason, not a personal failing, helped me replace self-blame with understanding. For me, it’s like brain freeze. My thoughts stop moving forward, and my body follows. If I can’t see every single step in front of me, I don’t move at all. The longer I stay stuck, the more frustration builds, a mental tug-of-war between intention and action. It can make me seem quiet or distracted, when in reality my mind is working hard to make sense of what to do next. Communicating that in the moment isn't easy, as when inertia hits, the ability to communicate shuts down first.
Inertia shows up in my running when structure slips away.
If I don’t know exactly what I’m doing or what to expect, my brain freezes before I even start. A change in weather, an unfamiliar route, or something as small as the wrong top can suddenly feel like too much to process. But when I have a clear route and set time, it’s different. My brain relaxes because it knows what’s coming, and I can focus on the movement instead of the uncertainty.
Over time, awareness has become my best friend. When I notice inertia creeping in, I try to understand where the roadblock is. Sometimes it’s about removing uncertainty, mapping a route on Strava, or choosing the treadmill for the familiarity and control it gives me. Other times it’s about seeking support. Every night, my partner and I go through my next day, what I’ve planned, what time my workout will happen, and what support I might need. That simple ritual helps me see the steps clearly before I wake up.
I run first thing in the morning. If I leave it until later, my energy dips and the inertia wins.
So I prepare everything the night before, my clothes, my playlist, my watch, my route. Those small details give me a sense of stability that helps me move.
Emotionally, if inertia creeps in, it can feel heavy. Before I start running, I can feel frustrated and stuck in my head. But afterwards, I feel empowered and free. The irony is that running, the thing that helps me manage my autism best, is often the hardest thing for my autism to let me do. It’s a cycle I’ve learned to approach with patience rather than pressure.
For years, I believed struggling to start meant I lacked discipline. But I’ve learned that my consistency, focus, and ability to follow a routine are brilliant strengths not many have. The traits that make starting difficult are the same ones that help me stay consistent once I’m in motion.
If you experience inertia, start small, and start gently.
Five minutes of movement counts. Routine and predictability can make all the difference. As autistic people, we often dive all in when something becomes a special interest, but easing in slowly helps make running sustainable and enjoyable. Try ten minutes around the block once a week. When it feels good, build from there.
Running hasn’t “fixed” my inertia, but it’s taught me to work with my brain instead of against it. Once I start moving, the rhythm of my steps begins to quiet the noise in my head. The repetition helps me process my thoughts, regulate my emotions, and reset. Running has also changed how I see myself.
