Masking is not a choice you make consciously. It’s something most autistic and ADHD people learn to do so early, and so well, that by the time you’re an adult, you’ve forgotten it isn’t just who you are.
The way you modulate your voice in a meeting. The way you remember to make eye contact at the right moments. The way you translate the internal chaos of an executive function failure into a plausible-sounding explanation that doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable. The way you hold your body still when every part of you wants to move.
All of it costs something.
What masking is (and isn’t)
Masking — sometimes called camouflaging — is the process of suppressing or hiding neurodivergent traits in order to appear more neurotypical. It’s most commonly discussed in the context of autism, but it’s equally present for people with ADHD, and often for people with both.
It is not lying. It is not manipulation. It is survival adaptation — the result of learning, early and repeatedly, that the version of yourself that comes naturally is not acceptable in the contexts you need to function in.
Most of us learned this before we had words for it.
The real cost
The research on masking is getting clearer. Higher masking is associated with:
- Greater rates of anxiety and depression
- Higher risk of autistic burnout
- Delayed diagnosis (particularly for women and girls)
- Lower self-esteem
- Physical exhaustion
But the number that struck me hardest when I first read it: autistic people who mask more report significantly lower quality of life — even when controlling for the severity of their autistic traits. The mask isn’t protecting you. It’s costing you.
And for parents of SEND children, who are often masking throughout every difficult conversation with a school, every meeting with a professional, every moment where they need to be taken seriously — the drain is compounded.
What happened when I stopped
I want to be careful here, because “stopping masking” is not something you can decide to do on a Tuesday. It’s a slow, often uncomfortable process. And it’s not always safe — there are still contexts where masking protects you from discrimination, misunderstanding, or professional consequences.
But I started, gradually, to drop some of it. Not everywhere. Not all at once.
I stopped performing certainty I didn’t feel. I stopped pretending meetings didn’t exhaust me. I started saying “I need that in writing” instead of performing confidence that I’d retained verbal instructions. I started acknowledging when I was dysregulated instead of pushing through and paying for it later.
The relief is hard to describe. Not immediately — the first few times, it felt terrifying. But over time: a kind of coming back to yourself. An energy you didn’t know you were spending, slowly returning.
If you’re a SEND parent who suspects they’re also neurodivergent
Many parents arrive at their own diagnosis through their child’s. It’s one of the most common pathways — and one of the most disorienting.
You’re simultaneously learning the SEND system, learning about your child’s neurodivergence, and beginning to see your own entire history through a different lens. It’s a lot to hold.
Some things that helped me:
- Finding language for things I’d experienced but never named. Sometimes just having the word is the beginning.
- Connecting with other late-diagnosed adults. There are communities — online and in person — where the specific experience of late diagnosis is understood without explanation.
- Going slowly. There is no timeline for this. You don’t have to process it all at once.
More on late diagnosis — and what it means to be navigating your child’s support while also coming to terms with your own — is coming.
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