I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Specifically about unmasking my autism. And while I’ve had some positive experiences with it, I’ve come to realize that the negative experiences still outweigh the positive ones. And that makes me really sad. It’s hard, honestly, because I don’t know what else to do or who else to be. I can’t be anything but myself, and sometimes it feels like that’s just too much for people to handle.
I know I’ve gotten some positive responses—people have been understanding, kind, and validating—but still, the negativity lingers. And that’s tough. It’s like a heavy weight in my chest. When my mom was sharing her experiences with unmasking, I couldn’t really respond in the way I wanted to. I wasn’t sure how to say it, but I’ve been feeling like my own experience of unmasking has been harder.
For me, it’s not just about letting go of the mask. It’s about trying to explain the way I move through the world. I feel like I need to explain why I do certain things, like singing loudly to myself or having the song “Jingle Bells” stuck in my head 24/7. Or why I sometimes talk out loud to myself, the animals, or even inanimate objects around me. These are stims. If you don’t know what stimming is, I suggest you look it up. It’s a way of self-regulating, a form of expression. It’s something that helps me feel grounded. But it’s also something that makes me feel like I have to explain myself to others.
Mmmmmm smells so good.
Here’s the thing: I can talk to animals or inanimate objects with ease, but when it comes to talking to people? That’s when I freeze. That’s when it gets too weird. It’s like my brain can’t quite make the connection, and then the pressure of social expectations just hits me. So, I just keep it inside. I don’t feel free to express myself the way I want to. And that’s painful—not just mentally, but physically too. Holding in stims isn’t just hard emotionally; it hurts in my body, and it’s depressing. It’s exhausting to try to be something I’m not.
I’ve spent so much of my life masking my true self because I thought it would make things easier. But it hasn’t. Not really. And now, as I’m unmasking, I’m faced with all these conflicting feelings. The sadness of wanting to be myself, but also feeling like I have to explain why I am the way I am. It’s like trying to explain the air I breathe or the way my heart beats. It’s me. It’s who I am. It’s autism. It’s ADHD. It’s my brain. It’s my body. Take it or leave it.
But sometimes, when I’m still caught in the moments of doubt, I wonder: what would it be like to just be free? Free from the expectations, the need for explanations, the weight of others’ judgment. It feels so far out of reach some days. But I hold on to the hope that one day, the world will be a little more understanding and a lot less demanding of conformity.
So yeah, I’m unmasking. And it’s a process. A painful, raw, beautiful process. And I’m doing it for me.
Part of the “Unmasking, One Post at a Time” series
Content Note: This post explores masking, self-awareness, and the quiet moments of learning to be real. If you’re currently in a hard place with identity or self-acceptance, please take care while reading.
I used to think unmasking would be one big, dramatic moment.
Like a grand reveal. A breaking point. A phoenix rising. And sometimes, it is.
But most days? It’s much quieter than that.
It’s not wearing makeup when I don’t want to. It’s asking, “Can you say that more directly?” instead of pretending I understood. It’s sitting how I actually want to sit, even if it looks “weird.” It’s saying no to a hangout, not because I’m busy—but because I don’t want to go. It’s admitting I need more time, or quiet, or clarity. It’s not faking a laugh when I didn’t get the joke. It’s pausing. It’s stimming. It’s choosing softness instead of performance.
I still mask.
Let’s be clear—I still do it. Because this world isn’t always safe for neurodivergent folks. Because unmasking doesn’t mean suddenly being “free”— It means slowly, carefully learning which parts of yourself deserve protection and which ones are finally safe to let out.
The mask slips off in layers.
Sometimes it clings. Sometimes I peel it off only to reach for it again five minutes later. But other times—I forget I even had it on.
And those are the best moments.
📝 Poem: I Didn’t Mean to Wear It
I didn’t mean to wear it— the smile, the nod, the soft yes when my body said no. It’s stitched into me sometimes, automatic, like muscle memory.
But today— I caught it halfway on. I paused. And let the silence speak instead of the mask.
That’s a win. That’s a whisper of healing. That’s me.
🪞 A Memory
A few days ago, I was at the grocery store and someone I vaguely knew from high school waved. She asked how I was. And I almost did it. The default: “Great!” with a grin, head tilt, eyes wide.
But instead, I shrugged a little. “Honestly? Been better. But I’m okay.” And just like that, the interaction felt human. Not scripted. She smiled back—genuinely. We didn’t force a conversation. We just… existed next to each other for a moment. And that felt good. Real.
This week, I noticed I didn’t fake a smile in a conversation where I used to.
I didn’t force small talk. I didn’t interrupt myself with apologies. I caught myself, and I let myself stay real. Not perfect. Just real.
And that’s enough for now.
🌀 Reflection Questions:
What does unmasking look like for you right now?
Can you remember a moment this week where you were fully yourself, even just for a second?
What would it feel like to unmask just 5% more in one part of your day?
This is video #2 that I’m posting. I’m not sure if I’ll keep track of the number of videos forever, but for now it feels right.
This is just me being me — on video — even though I’ve never really been a “video of myself talking” kind of person. (I had to do it for a couple of college assignments and I hated it. That’s pretty much the only time I remember having to video myself.)
This one’s a little messy. I say “um” and “like” a lot — I know. Honestly, I do use “like” way too much in real life, but it’s just a word I love and it’s part of how I talk. I’m not usually much of an “um-er,” though.
I only recorded this once and watched it once, because I’m trying not to overanalyze or turn it into something it’s not. I just want to show up as the realest version of myself that I can.
I blink too much, and to me, it’s obvious I’m still not totally comfortable doing this yet. But that’s just how it is when you’re doing something new and vulnerable — and I know it’ll get easier with time.
For the next few videos, I might try writing myself a little script so I can get my points across more clearly. But for this one, I wanted it to be 100% natural.
Also, after I watched it back, I noticed the black paint on my fingers. But I’m not going to go wash my hands and re-record just because my hands are messy. Honestly, having paint on me (and usually some dirt under my nails) is pretty much my natural state.
I’ve shared a lot of words on this blog. But this time, I wanted to share my voice. My face. Me.
This video is the start of something new for me. It’s a little messy, a little scripty (I won’t lie), but it’s mine.
I’m not here to perform or perfect. I’m here to connect. To talk honestly about the things that matter—neurodivergence, burnout, healing, identity, feminism, softness, survival, joy.
If any of that resonates with you, welcome. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
When was the last time you let yourself show up imperfectly—and still called it brave?
I’d love to hear your answer in the comments, or just let it sit with you quietly.
🧠💔 A personal essay on autism, ADHD, self-harm, and the journey toward self-compassion
⚠️ Note to Readers
This post contains personal reflections on self-harm, mental health, masking, and neurodivergence. Please read with care and compassion. If you are struggling, know you are not alone—resources are listed at the end of this post. I’m sharing this in hopes that someone else might feel seen.
I Didn’t Know Why I Did It
I was 21 the first time I self-harmed. It was the night of my sorority’s spring formal—an event I had spent weeks planning as the Vice President of Event Planning for Pi Beta Phi. That role wasn’t one I wanted; I took it on out of guilt and obligation when the original officer stepped down for her own mental health. No one else was willing to step up, and I didn’t want our chapter to fall apart under pressure from national headquarters.
So I did what I’d always done: I took on too much. I wore the perfect face. I planned the perfect party. I made sure everyone else had the time of their lives—even though I was barely surviving mine.
After the event, I went out with my boyfriend and friends to celebrate. Everything seemed fine. But later, back in my boyfriend’s room at his fraternity house, something broke. I sat down on the floor and started crying—hard. Full-body, couldn’t-stop sobbing. And then I started scratching the back of my neck, my arms, my shoulders. I pulled at my hair in sharp, frantic handfuls. It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t attention-seeking. It was a release. It was a meltdown. I didn’t know that word back then, but that’s what it was.
He pulled me into his arms and stopped me. And then I never spoke about it again.
The Perfection Trap
Looking back, it’s not surprising that it happened then. I was exhausted—emotionally, mentally, physically. But I didn’t know how to name it, and I didn’t feel like I had permission to admit it. I was a “high-functioning” sorority girl with leadership roles and a big smile. I was the girl people could count on. And I believed that being good meant never showing pain.
So I didn’t.
I buried it. I kept moving forward. I acted like it had never happened—because that’s what perfection required of me.
The Part of the Story I Didn’t Know Yet
It would be years before I’d begin to understand that I’m autistic. That I have ADHD. That my brain has always processed the world more intensely than others. That I’d been masking—hiding my real self to fit in, to survive—for most of my life.
That night wasn’t random. That moment on the floor was my body and brain screaming out after months (maybe years) of chronic overstimulation, internalized pressure, and emotional dysregulation. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t weak. I was melting down in the only way my nervous system knew how to.
But without a diagnosis, without language, without community or support—I thought it was just me. I thought I had snapped. I thought I was broken.
Teaching Burned Me Out Again
The next time it happened, I was a teacher—three years into my career at a public elementary school in Florida. I was overworked, under-supported, and living on Diet Coke, potato chips, and 3 hours of sleep a night. I stayed late at school. I brought home papers to grade and lessons to plan. I gave everything I had to my students and had nothing left for myself.
One night, the scratching and hair-pulling came back. I remember the sting, the sharpness, the brief moment of stillness that followed. The next day, a fourth grader asked about the marks on the back of my neck. I wore my hair in a bun every day, so they were visible.
I lied. “Oh, it was my cat,” I said. She believed me. Of course she did.
But they didn’t look like cat scratches.
It Wasn’t for Attention. It Was to Survive.
Self-harm is so misunderstood. Especially in neurodivergent people.
It wasn’t about getting someone to notice me. It was about trying to regulate a body that had gone completely dysregulated. It was a way to feel when I felt nothing. Or to distract myself from feeling too much. It was my brain’s desperate attempt to cope with things I didn’t know how to express in words.
And even when I did try to speak, I didn’t feel like I was allowed to.
Now I Know Better. Now I Treat Myself Kinder.
Today, I know that autistic and ADHD people are more prone to self-harm. Not because we’re “crazy” or “unstable” but because our brains and bodies are wired to experience the world in intense, overwhelming ways. We are more likely to internalize shame. More likely to mask. More likely to burn out quietly.
I’m not immune now. But I have better coping tools. I’ve found gentler ways to let the feelings out—through art, poetry, walking in nature, meditation, painting galaxies and wildflowers. I’m learning to ask for help. I’m learning to listen to myself when the early signs show up.
And I’m not pretending to be perfect anymore.
A Letter to My Younger Self
Dear Me at 21,
You weren’t crazy. You weren’t too sensitive. You weren’t weak.
You were breaking under the weight of a world that never taught you how to live in your body. You were trying to carry everyone’s expectations without dropping your own. You were masking pain with smiles and success and silence.
And when you finally cracked, you thought that meant something was wrong with you.
But all it meant was this:
You were overwhelmed. You were hurting. And you needed help.
I see you now. And I love you fiercely.
You made it. And you’re still making it.
Love, The version of you who finally knows she never had to be perfect. The one who wears softness like armor now.
Healing Isn’t Linear—But I’m Not Hiding Anymore
Up until this past summer, the self-harm moments had become more frequent than ever. It scared me. It felt like I was back in that place again—on the floor, overwhelmed, and alone.
But this time was different.
Because this time, I finally had answers. I was diagnosed with autism. And instead of shame, I felt relief. I was getting the help I needed. My parents, my siblings, and my friends showed up for me with love and support. There was no judgment. No pretending. Just care. And that made all the difference.
I still have moments. The past year has been one of the hardest of my life. So many changes. So much processing. So much unraveling.
But I also have more tools now. I can talk about the hard stuff instead of hiding it. I can lean on my boyfriend and my family. I can say “I’m not okay” without feeling like I’ve failed.
It still happens sometimes—but I don’t carry the shame anymore. I don’t keep it secret. And every time I speak it out loud, every time I let someone in, it loses a little more of its power over me.
I’m still working on it.
But the more I understand what’s really happening inside me—the sensory overload, the masking fatigue, the emotional spirals—the more I can show myself compassion. And the less alone I feel.
