Redefining resilience through an autistic lens

(4 minute read)

Resilience—the ability to recover from difficulties—is, in my opinion, one of the cornerstones of being a self-employed independent designer-maker. When, unlike Victoria Beckham, you can't run a brand without making a profit for 18 years, what types of resilience are actually needed? Do you really need to be physically, mentally, emotionally, and socially resilient to be successful? And what is success, anyway?

Being an introverted autistic designer who has made a living by making things and selling them at pop-up shops since 1999, I have real-world experience in adapting to the unpredictability and challenges of running a small business. During those 27 years, I've worked hard to build and maintain Jed Phoenix of London, putting in long hours in the studio before loading stock into whatever means of transport is available at the time, setting up my display of products, and introducing the public to them.

Managing energy expenditure when there always seems to be so much to do as a solopreneur can be tough. Physical resilience is vital, especially in the lead-up to a big retail event. But for a neurodivergent maker, just continuing to push oneself or continuing to grind harder can be a recipe for overwhelm and burnout. Over the years, I've learned that having the right chair and lighting at the sewing machine can mitigate both the physical toll and the sensory load of long production hours. Getting up and moving around is built into my workday much more now that I don't have studio staff. I can also follow the natural peaks and troughs in my physical energy—cycles that didn't always coincide with the hours my machinist, Elaine, or my work experience students used to come in. By working alone in the studio, I can protect my body by creating an environment that works for my sensory and energy needs.

Having a physical outlet for the stresses of work has become increasingly important as I've gotten older. I've always been relatively fit—something that comes in handy when lifting 50-meter bolts of fabric onto the cutting table or loading bags of stock in and out of venues with stairs instead of lifts. With my body as the primary engine driving JPoL, looking after it, allowing it to blow off steam, and fueling it well all add to its resilience and longevity.

Mental resilience as a solo business owner is usually defined as decision-making under pressure. But for an autistic creative, it often centers on managing cognitive overwhelm. When talking to a potential customer at a pop-up shop, my brain can easily spiral into an anxiety loop: "If I make this sale, I'll have to make more of these next week, which means ordering more fabric/trigger hooks/press studs, which means dealing with the uncertainty of when the delivery will arrive, which might interrupt my flow, and what if I run out of time?" That mental load makes simple interactions feel daunting.

Mental resilience means recognizing where your mind naturally thrives—like the deep, satisfying hyperfocus needed for cutting and sewing well-made products—and insulating those spaces from the pressures of fast turnaround times. It means increasing lead times for orders, not worrying too much if I don't replace stock after every sales event, and setting clear boundaries around replying to messages so administrative anxiety doesn't drown out creative focus.

In the maker world, rejection is frequent. Slow sales at a market, an ignored email, or social media posts that get very little attention can easily feel like a personal critique. For neurodivergent entrepreneurs, who often carry years of feeling misunderstood, emotional resilience requires actively uncoupling personal self-worth from sales figures. It means reframing a quiet pop-up shop as an opportunity to spend time on other aspects of the business, design something new, or simply allow space for quiet recovery after high-intensity periods earlier in the year.

Social interaction—particularly the chat required at pop-up shops to introduce someone to JPoL—is often where energy reserves drain the fastest. For years, the default expectation was to "mask": maintain the right amount of eye contact, engage in the back-and-forth of unstructured conversation, and play the role of the extroverted salesperson.

True social resilience came from realizing that I don't have to do it all myself. Working with my autism mentor, Jess Hendrickx, helped me reframe help with sales not as a personal failure, but as smart operational design. Investing in a freelance sales assistant for pop-up events transformed my social strategy. Having an enthusiastic, friendly person to handle initial greetings takes the immediate pressure off. It leaves me free to answer specific design questions when customers want to know more, while conserving my energy for what I do best: creating.

Ultimately, resilience isn't about how much noise you can endure, how long you can push through sensory overload, or whether you can run every single aspect of a business entirely on your own. True resilience lies in building a business structure that respects your energy reserves, honours your natural strengths, and protects your well-being. When you run an independent practice, success isn't dictated by corporate benchmarks or high-stakes profit margins—success is whatever you define it to be.