An autistic meltdown isn't a choice. It's a neurological event when sensory input, emotional distress, or cognitive demands exceed capacity. The nervous system becomes overwhelmed and shuts down or explodes. I lose ability to speak, to think clearly, to control my body. Everything becomes too much, and I fall apart.
For years, I felt intense shame about meltdowns. Adults are supposed to have self-control. Christians are supposed to have the fruit of the Spirit, including self-control. My inability to prevent meltdowns seemed like spiritual failure, evidence of inadequate faith or insufficient maturity.
Then I discovered the Psalms of lament, and everything shifted.
"Out of the depths I cry to you, O LORD! O Lord, hear my voice!" (Psalm 130:1-2). "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?" (Psalm 22:1). "I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping" (Psalm 6:6).
These aren't calm, composed prayers. They're raw expressions of anguish, overwhelm, and desperation. The psalmists aren't maintaining spiritual composure; they're falling apart before God. And Scripture includes these prayers, validates them, even commands them: "Pour out your heart before him" (Psalm 62:8).
The lament Psalms gave me language for understanding meltdowns spiritually. When I'm overwhelmed to the point of collapse, when everything is too much and I can't cope, when I'm crying and rocking and unable to speak—this isn't spiritual failure. It's being human in a broken world with a nervous system that has limits.
David experienced states that sound a lot like meltdowns: "I am feeble and crushed; I groan because of the tumult of my heart" (Psalm 38:8). "My heart is in anguish within me; the terrors of death have fallen upon me. Fear and trembling come upon me, and horror overwhelms me" (Psalm 55:4-5). This is description of being completely overwhelmed, unable to function normally.
And God doesn't condemn David for these experiences. He meets David in them. The Psalms move from lament to trust, but they don't skip the lament. They don't spiritualize away the pain or demand immediate composure. They make space for anguish while pointing toward hope.
This is what I needed. Not denial of my meltdowns or demands that I pull myself together. Permission to be overwhelmed, to fall apart, to cry out in distress—and assurance that God is present even in these moments.
When I'm having a meltdown, I can't form coherent prayers. But I can groan. Romans 8:26 says the Spirit "intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words." My wordless distress in meltdowns is met by the Spirit who translates it into prayer on my behalf.
I've also found that memorized lament Psalms can function during meltdowns when original prayer is impossible. Even fragmented, partially remembered phrases—"Out of the depths... hear my voice... the LORD is my shepherd... you are with me"—give structure when my mind is chaos.
The lament tradition also challenges Christian toxic positivity. We're often taught to be joyful always, to give thanks in everything, to maintain positive confession. But half the Psalms are laments. Scripture makes extensive space for sorrow, complaint, and distress. Joy is commanded, yes, but so is honest acknowledgment of suffering.
Autistic meltdowns forced me to recognize limits I'd rather deny. I want to be capable, competent, able to handle whatever comes. Meltdowns remind me I'm not. I have a nervous system with finite capacity. When it's exceeded, I fall apart. This is humbling, humiliating even. But it's also true.
Lament Psalms teach that bringing our limitations and distress to God is appropriate prayer. "LORD, I can't handle this. Everything is too much. I'm falling apart. Help me." That's not weak faith; that's honest faith. It's trusting God enough to admit I'm not okay.
The Psalms also teach that lament moves toward trust, even if it doesn't always arrive there immediately. "I cried to God... in the day of my trouble I seek the Lord" (Psalm 77:1-2). The psalmist brings distress to God, trusts that God hears, and eventually remembers God's faithfulness. The process isn't instant, but it's real.
After a meltdown, when I'm exhausted and ashamed, I can remember: the Psalms validate this experience. God makes space for it. My overwhelm isn't outside the scope of prayer; it is prayer. Inarticulate distress crying to God for help.
This doesn't mean I shouldn't work to prevent meltdowns. I should manage sensory input, pace myself, recognize warning signs, remove myself from overwhelming situations when possible. Lament doesn't eliminate responsibility for self-care.
But it does mean meltdowns aren't moral failures. They're nervous system events that happen when capacity is exceeded. They're occasions for crying out to God, not evidence that I've failed Him.
Churches need to understand this. When autistic people have meltdowns, the response shouldn't be judgment or demands to "get control of yourself." It should be compassion, space, and willingness to help the person regulate without shaming them.
Practical responses during someone's meltdown:
- Reduce sensory input (lower lights, reduce noise)
- Give space without abandoning them
- Speak calmly and minimally
- Don't demand eye contact or verbal response
- Offer comfort objects or sensory tools if they help
- Don't rush them to "recover" quickly
After a meltdown:
- Don't shame them or demand apology for being overwhelmed
- Acknowledge it was hard without making it about you
- Ask what would help prevent future meltdowns
- Recognize they're likely exhausted and need recovery time
The lament Psalms also give autistic people permission to be honest about how hard life can be. Neurotypical Christians sometimes minimize autistic challenges: "Everyone struggles with social situations sometimes." "We all get overwhelmed occasionally." "Just pray about it."
But chronic sensory overwhelm, constant social confusion, frequent meltdowns—these aren't universal human experiences. They're specific to neurodivergent nervous systems. Lament gives space to name this honestly without pretending it's fine.
"How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I take counsel in my soul and have sorrow in my heart all the day?" (Psalm 13:1-2). This is permission to ask: How long must I deal with sensory overload? How long must I struggle with environments designed for neurotypical nervous systems? How long?
And the answer isn't always immediate relief. Sometimes it's "I see you. I'm with you. Keep trusting." That's not nothing. In the midst of meltdown, knowing God is present even when I'm falling apart—that's sustaining.
The Psalms teach me that my autistic struggles, including meltdowns, aren't outside God's concern. They're legitimate occasions for prayer. My nervous system's limitations are real, and God knows them: "He knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust" (Psalm 103:14).
I'm dust with an autistic nervous system. I have limits. When they're exceeded, I fall apart. And God, who formed me in the womb, who numbers the hairs on my head, who knew exactly what neurology He was creating—He understands. He makes space for my lament. He meets me in my overwhelm.
That's not solving the problem of meltdowns. But it's transforming them from occasions of shame into occasions of prayer. And that changes everything.