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Even though I’m a therapist-in-training and appear confident on camera, the truth is… I’ve been feeling pretty disconnected from my work lately. And after sitting with that feeling, I realized something big:
I’ve been masking.
Masking is when you hide parts of yourself—your natural expressions, instincts, reactions—in order to fit in or feel accepted.
It’s something everyone does to a degree (we all shift slightly depending on our environment), but for neurodivergent people, masking can become a full-time job. And we don’t always realize we’re doing it.
Over time, it wears on your soul. It’s like constantly editing yourself—your voice, your movements, your interests, your way of processing the world—just to be “normal” enough to survive social settings.
“Neurodivergent” simply means your brain works a little differently than the average or “neurotypical” brain. It includes things like ADHD, autism, dyslexia, sensory sensitivities, and more.
You might think differently, feel things more intensely, need more time to process emotions or information, or struggle with environments that others find simple to navigate.
It’s not something to be fixed—it’s just a different way of experiencing life.
Looking back, the signs were there.
I was a deeply imaginative child with a rich inner world. I had a natural gift for the arts—drawing, writing, and playing music—and was also athletic.
When I was in motion or creating, I felt most connected to life. But outside of that, I often dissociated—retreating into fantasy worlds I built in my mind.
I now understand that some of this may have been my neurodivergence… but some was also trauma.
I grew up in a generationally violent, alcoholic home. Neglect and emotional volatility shaped my early development. My brain, in an effort to protect itself, became highly observant, highly internal, and deeply imaginative.
That wasn’t just a “quiet kid.” That was survival.
I started masking heavily after a move—from Chicago to Missouri.
In Chicago, I was surrounded by encouraging teachers who nurtured my creativity and sensitivity. I began to open up socially and feel more at home in my own skin.
But Missouri was different. I suddenly felt like I had to rehearse who I was.
I mimicked people’s tones and facial expressions. I memorized what “normal” looked like and tried to wear it like a costume.
But inside, I felt like a shell.
I became an observer more than a participant. I watched how others interacted—trying to decode social norms that didn’t come naturally to me. But my quiet nature was often misunderstood as judgment or aloofness.
Really, I was just trying to survive without losing myself.
Masking didn’t end in childhood—it followed me into adulthood.
In school, I’d often read the same passage over and over and still not comprehend it. I needed more time than others to process, but I thought that meant I wasn’t smart enough.
In group conversations, I often get overwhelmed. I lose track, fall behind, or simply shut down.
I haven’t yet found my “tribe” again—people who feel like home, like I did in Chicago. And because of that, I’ve lived a very solo life, both for protection and for preservation of energy.
Alongside my neurodivergence, I also identify as a Highly Sensitive Person—a trait marked by deep processing, emotional intensity, and sensory sensitivity.
Sounds, smells, textures, and especially emotions—I feel them all intensely.
Research even shows that women tend to have a larger hippocampus, the brain’s memory center. Between that and trauma, my memory is vivid. I remember details most people don’t notice.
I’ve played piano while dissociating—perfectly executing notes while my mind floated elsewhere. That’s how deeply my nervous system learned to split itself.
Because of trauma, I live in a state of heightened awareness.
My brain is constantly scanning: Is this safe? Am I okay? Is something about to go wrong?
My processing speed is slower than others—not because I lack intelligence, but because I process deeply. I need quiet, space, and time to absorb and respond.
This makes group conversations difficult. I don’t like interrupting, so I tend to listen instead of speak. It’s not that I don’t have thoughts—it’s that my thoughts need room to breathe.
Masking has become second nature. It’s automatic.
Sometimes, I only realize I was masking after the moment has passed—when I feel drained, confused, or like I’ve betrayed my own truth.
It’s exhausting. And unsustainable.
So I’ve decided it’s time to begin the unmasking process.
Unmasking isn’t a flip of a switch—it’s a journey of rediscovery.
What parts of me are truly me? What parts were shaped by survival, fear, or mimicry?
Even though I’ll still edit videos or prepare my thoughts before speaking, I want to show up more naturally. I want to speak not just to inform, but to connect.
With myself. And with you.
This blog is the beginning of a mini-series I’m launching on neurodivergence—not just the textbook definitions, but the real stories behind the labels.
I want to share more about what it means to live as a neurodivergent woman, a trauma survivor, and a therapist-in-training.
I want to help others like me feel less alone.
And if this resonates with you, I invite you to join me—whether that’s by subscribing to my channel, sharing your story, or simply reading along.
Because when we unmask, we give others permission to do the same.
And that creates a ripple effect of healing that starts small… but can change the world.
click Here to read about the struggles of being mixed-race and neurodivergent in a neurotypical world.
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