masking Archives - Essy Knopf

Healing rejection sensitivity as a neurodivergent

Reading time: 6 minutes

How much of your personality is shaped by the fear that people will leave?

Not because you’re rude. Not because you don’t care about others. But because deep down, a part of you suspects that if people really saw you—your intensity, your honesty, your deep emotional currents, your very neurodivergence—they’d quickly slip away.

You’ve likely learned to scan every social interaction for danger signs. You second-guess that message you sent. You keep the group chat light, even when you’re going through something hard. You’re funny, but not too weird. Kind, but not too needy. Thoughtful, but never demanding.

You might say things like, “Sorry, I’m rambling,” when you were just excited. Or, “I totally understand if you’re busy,” even when you’re aching for a reply. You keep your joy small. Your opinions mild. Your needs…minimal.

All to avoid the moment when someone might think: “Ugh. Too much.”

This is what rejection sensitivity can look like in daily life. Sometimes, it’s subtle: a quiet shrinking of the self, over and over again, in service of conditional acceptance.

What Rejection Sensitivity Really Is

Rejection sensitivity isn’t just “taking things too personally.” It’s not about being dramatic, oversensitive, or emotionally immature, though you’ve probably been told some version of that before.

It’s a deeply embodied response. A nervous system reaction, not just a mental one. And it’s often born from years, sometimes decades, of subtle (and not-so-subtle) social injuries.

If you’re ADHD, you might know this experience as rejection sensitive dysphoria (RSD), a term used to describe the intense emotional pain that even perceived rejection can bring.

RSD isn’t in the DSM, but it’s widely recognized in ADHD spaces because it’s so incredibly common. If you’re autistic, you might not have a neat label for it. But you know what it feels like.

It’s the sudden drop in your stomach when a message is left on “read.” The hours you spend replaying a conversation, wondering if you said something wrong. The crushing shame after someone sighs or makes a face, even if they weren’t reacting to you. The total shutdown after a tiny social misstep.

Rejection sensitivity means your nervous system treats social disconnection like a threat. It is often a response to teasing, exclusion, and misunderstandings that were never cleared up. The way your intensity got misread as aggression, your honesty mistaken for rudeness, your silence taken as disinterest.

You may have learned early on: If I show up fully, I will be rejected.

And so, your brain started working overtime to protect you. Not from lions or fires, but from the pain of being misunderstood. Misjudged. Left.

That protection became hypervigilance: constantly scanning for eyerolls, clipped tones, silences that might mean you’re no longer welcome. You may not even realize you’re doing it, until your chest tightens, your thoughts race, your face burns with shame.

This is rejection sensitivity. People might say it’s “just in your head,” but truth be told, it’s also in your body.

You’re Not Broken. You’re Trying to Survive

What you’re experiencing—this fear, this overthinking, this sense that you’re always on the verge of getting it wrong—leads you to protect yourself in the only ways you know how: by shrinking, by guessing, by performing.

As a result, you try so hard to stay connected in a world that made you feel like connection was something you had to earn.

Rejection sensitivity is not a character flaw. It’s what happens when your core need for belonging has been repeatedly met with confusion, punishment, or silence.

You’ve likely spent years decoding social cues like a second language. Years trying to translate your tone, your timing, your truth into something palatable. And maybe you got really good at it. But over time, it taught you that the real you might not be lovable. So you tucked that self away.

But the more you contort yourself to avoid rejection, the more you begin to internalize it.

You over-apologize when you’ve done nothing wrong. You downplay your feelings to keep others comfortable.

You talk yourself out of expressing needs before you even try. You tiptoe through conversations, scanning for signs that someone’s pulling away.

And when something does go wrong—when someone’s distant, or doesn’t respond, or seems annoyed—it confirms what you feared all along: “See? I knew I was too much.”

So you withdraw. Or shut down. Or ghost them before they ghost you.

But here’s what often gets missed: these may seem like “bad habits” or “immature reactions,” but they’re actually protective strategies. And they’ve probably helped you survive some really hard things.

So no. You’re not broken. You’re someone who’s been trying, so hard, for so long, to feel safe in a world that didn’t make space for you.

How Healing Begins

If rejection sensitivity is just your nervous system trying to protect you, then healing can’t come from self-criticism.

It doesn’t come either from forcing yourself to “toughen up” or grow a thicker skin. It doesn’t come from trying harder to be “easygoing.” And it definitely doesn’t come from pretending not to care.

You’ve already tried all that. And it left you exhausted, disconnected, and quietly grieving the parts of yourself you buried.

Healing starts in a different place: safety. Not the safety of never being rejected again, but the kind where you can stay connected to yourself, even when fear flares.

Because rejection sensitivity lives in the body, the work is often slow, steady, and rooted in practice.

Here are a few ways to begin:

1. Name the Pattern Without Shame

The next time your thoughts start spiraling, replaying a conversation, reading into a text, preparing an apology just in case, pause.

Put a gentle hand over your heart or your chest and say to yourself: “This is rejection sensitivity. I’m not in danger. I’m just triggered.”

You don’t have to fully believe it. But say it anyway.

Naming what’s happening brings awareness. And awareness brings space. And space is what helps you step out of the loop, instead of getting swept up in it.

2. Regulate Before You Ruminate

When your nervous system is in fight-or-flight, no amount of reasoning will work. Logic can’t get through the alarm bells.

So before you try to “think it through,” start with your body. For example:

Try holding something warm.
Try lengthening your exhales.
Try putting gentle pressure on your chest, or lying under a weighted blanket.
Try stimming, moving in a way that feels soothing, like rocking or tapping.

These actions speak directly to your nervous system, telling it: You’re safe. You’re okay. You can settle now.

And once your body feels calmer, your mind becomes clearer, and your inner critic a little quieter.

3. Build Relationships That Can Hold the Real You

You need spaces where you don’t have to filter yourself, shrink yourself, or mask just to stay welcome. For example:

That might be one trusted friend.
A neurodivergent peer group.
A therapist who gets it.
A space where your intensity is understood.

Start small. You don’t have to bare your soul. Let someone see a little more of you, the parts you usually hide. And when they stay? Let your nervous system breathe that in.

Because over time, repeated moments of safety become new wiring. They become evidence: Maybe I can be real… and still be loved.

4. Validate the Original Wound

So many of us want to move forward without looking back. But rejection sensitivity often has roots in earlier pain: younger versions of you who were left out, shamed, or misunderstood.

You don’t need to relive those moments. But you do need to acknowledge them.

Try saying: “Of course I fear rejection. I was rejected.” “Of course this hurts. It’s hurt for a long time.” “I’m not exaggerating. I’m remembering.”

You don’t heal shame by denying it. You heal it by bringing compassion to the parts of you that were never offered any.

Healing is slow. Nonlinear. Sometimes frustrating. But every time you pause instead of spiral… Every time you stay present with the discomfort… Every time you let yourself be seen, even when you’re scared…

You are creating a new possibility: I don’t have to disappear to stay safe. I can stay, as me.

Final Thoughts

If no one ever told you this before, let me say it now, clearly and without condition: you are someone whose nervous system has been shaped by real experiences, and whose longing for connection has never been the problem.

Rejection sensitivity is not a sign that you’re flawed. It’s a sign that you care. Deeply. It’s a sign that you’ve been hurt, and still show up anyway. It’s a sign that you crave authenticity, even in a world that hasn’t always welcomed it.

And that sensitivity is not something to fix or erase. It’s the doorway to your empathy, your truth-telling, your passion, your presence.

The parts of you that feel too intense… too tender… too honest? Those are the parts that make you who you are.

Belonging shouldn’t depend on perfect timing, flawless communication, or unshakable emotional regulation. It shouldn’t require that you always be agreeable, quiet, or easy.

Real belonging shouldn’t involve auditioning for acceptance, but arriving exactly as you are.

It’s built on mutuality. On people who see you, and stay. And yes, those people exist.

People who won’t flinch when your voice wavers with feeling. Who won’t pull away when you ask for clarity. Who see your honesty as a gift, not a threat. Who welcome your intensity not despite it, but because it’s real.

But here’s the twist: before you can truly receive that kind of acceptance from others, you may need to offer a little more of it to yourself.

To say: “Even when I’m scared, I still deserve love.” “Even when I’m triggered, I am still worthy.” “Even when I get it wrong, I still belong.”

Because you do.

How has rejection sensitivity shown up in your relationships? How have you learned to navigate it, or are you just starting to?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Why pretending to be ‘normal’ leaves us feeling lost

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 6 minutes

Who are you when you’re under pressure? When you’re in a room where your words are measured, your tone is policed, your very presence feels too loud or too weird or too much?

For many neurodivergents, we learn early that who we are isn’t always welcome. So we adapt. We camouflage. We create a version of ourselves designed to blend in.

Maybe you became the quiet one, the agreeable one, the overachiever. Maybe you tried to be invisible… or, just as often, indispensable.

This is the beginning of the false self: a carefully constructed identity built not from joy or authenticity, but from necessity. It starts as protection. But eventually, the performance gets so convincing, even we begin to believe it’s who we are.

And then, quietly, something even deeper happens: we lose trust in our real self. We wonder why connection feels empty. We stop believing our natural instincts are valid.

That loss is the slow fading of neurodivergent self-worth; a disconnect so normalized we often don’t even know it’s happening.

The Birth of the False Self

Psychologist Carl Rogers spoke of the “false self” as a protective persona; something we construct when the real us feels unacceptable.

For neurodivergents, this construction often begins young, as the result of subtle, consistent signals that tell us: You don’t quite fit here.

Maybe you were the kid who was told to “stop being so dramatic” when you cried. Or you were scolded for flapping, rocking, or bouncing your legs.

Maybe adults praised your “maturity” when really, you were just dissociating. Or you were the student who got labeled a problem for asking “too many questions” or “talking too much about bugs.”

None of those moments feel like major traumas at the time, but they add up. Over time, the message becomes clear: You can stay, but only if you perform. You can belong—but not like that.

So we begin to mold ourselves. We tone it down. We rehearse our facial expressions. We memorize the “right” answers, the “right” responses.

We laugh when we’re confused, smile when we’re overwhelmed, and apologize just for existing too loudly.

Eventually, the line between the real us and the performed version begins to blur. And the more we hide, the harder it becomes to believe there’s anything worthwhile underneath the mask.

This is when our neurodivergent self-worth begins to fracture, and we start to abandon authenticity.

Trauma in a Thousand Cuts

When most people hear the word “trauma,” they picture something catastrophic: a car accident, a natural disaster, a violent event. But for many neurodivergent folks, trauma arrives slowly, in pieces.

It shows up in eyerolls when you share your special interest. In teachers who tell you to “use your words” when you’re frozen in shutdown. In group projects where no one listens to your ideas. In friendships that end the moment you stop masking.

This is complex PTSD, or C-PTSD: a type of trauma that develops from the accumulation of chronic invalidation, shame, and exclusion. The gradual erosion of safety.

Eventually, the world starts to feel like an unsafe place. So our nervous system adapts. We live in survival mode:

Flight from conversations that feel too intimate
Freeze when we’re put on the spot
Fawn when someone seems disappointed in us
Fight with ourselves, internally, when we “mess up” being neurotypical

In this state, it becomes hard to tell what’s us and what’s fear. And instead of asking, “Why was I treated this way?”, we start asking, “What’s wrong with me?”

This is one of the most devastating impacts of C-PTSD: the way it warps our self-image. The way it disconnects us from our value. The way it convinces us that our neurodivergent self-worth is conditional; that we are only lovable when we are hidden, quiet, or small.

Internalized Ableism: The Enemy Within

Ableism isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always look like bullying or name-calling. Sometimes, it slips into our lives disguised as “feedback,” “concern,” or “normal expectations.”

“Don’t be so sensitive.” “You really should know that by now.” “Everyone else manages. Why can’t you?” “You’re overreacting again.” “It’s not that hard.”

We hear these words enough times, from enough people, and eventually… we internalize them.

That’s internalized ableism: the process by which we absorb society’s discomfort with our differences and turn it inward. It becomes a private narrative. A rulebook written in shame.

We monitor our own body language. We question whether we’re allowed to say no. We convince ourselves our needs are unreasonable or childish. We treat our natural responses as something to suppress, sanitize, or apologize for.

And the more we self-police, the more disconnected we become from our true feelings. Our intuition. Our limits. We override what our body and brain are trying to tell us, because somewhere along the line, we started believing that our way of being is wrong.

And with every suppressed need, every censored impulse, every moment we say “I’m fine” when we’re not… our neurodivergent self-worth takes another hit.

We find ourselves no longer sure which parts of ourselves are real, and which parts were sculpted to be accepted.

But here’s what matters: That voice in your head? It didn’t start with you. You didn’t invent these criticisms, but you did inherit them.

And you have permission to start questioning them now.

The Voice of the Inner Critic

It shows up just before we speak in a meeting, whispering, “Don’t say that—you’ll sound weird.”

It chimes in after a social interaction: “You talked too much. You made it awkward. They’re probably annoyed.”

It panics when we set a boundary: “You’re being difficult. They’ll leave you.”

That voice—that critical, anxious, rule-obsessed voice—is the inner critic. And for many neurodivergent people, it’s a constant companion.

It might sound like a parent who didn’t understand you. A teacher who was quick to shame. Peers who laughed when you flapped your hands, stimmed, or spaced out. A boss who said you weren’t a “culture fit.” Or a therapist who said, “You can’t be autistic—you make eye contact.”

Over time, those voices blur together. They become internalized, replaying again and again until they sound like our own thoughts.

But here’s what’s important: that voice didn’t come from nowhere. It was learned. Conditioned. Built from repetition. It’s your survival instinct, shaped by rejection.

The inner critic is afraid of being too visible. Afraid of being vulnerable. Afraid of the hurt that once followed your authenticity.

So it tries to protect you. But in doing so, it reinforces the very mask that’s keeping you disconnected.

The first step in softening the critic is to recognize it. To notice when it shows up. To name it. To say: “I see you. I know why you’re here. But I’m not in danger anymore.”

This is a powerful turning point.

Each time we respond with compassion instead of compliance, the critic loses just a little bit of power. And in that softening, there’s room for something else to grow: the voice of self-trust. Self-kindness.

This is the foundation of neurodivergent self-worth.

Grieving the Cost of Disconnection

The journey back to yourself isn’t always filled with joy. Sometimes, it begins with heartbreak.

Because once you start unmasking—once you begin to peel back the layers of who you had to become to survive—you start to see what it cost you.

You grieve the friendships that were built on performance, not presence. You grieve the creativity you shut down just to be taken seriously. You grieve the younger version of yourself who learned to apologize for existing. You grieve the time—years, sometimes decades—spent being “easy,” “pleasant,” “productive”… instead of being real.

This grief is sacred. It means you’re finally noticing the places where you abandoned yourself in the name of belonging. It means your nervous system is starting to feel safe enough to remember what it once had to forget.

And this remembering? It’s messy. It’s tender. But it’s necessary.

Reclaiming your neurodivergent self-worth is about uncovering what’s been there all along, buried beneath layers of compliance and performance.

It’s realizing that you were never the problem. That the way you move, feel, think, and love was never broken… just misunderstood.

And maybe, for the first time, you start to believe that safety isn’t something one has to earn through self-erasure, but something we build by accepting ourselves exactly as we are.

Final Thoughts

Being neurodivergent does not mean we are inherently defective, but rather that we were born into a world that wasn’t built to understand our kind of brilliance.

And so, like so many neurodivergents, we adapt. We craft a false self: an incredible, intelligent strategy designed to protect ourselves. We learned to read the room to make ourselves smaller, softer, easier to handle.

And that strategy worked. It helped us survive. But survival is not the same as wholeness.

And now—maybe for the first time—you’re allowed to want more. Not just peace, but presence. Not just acceptance, but connection. Not just coping, but clarity.

Not just survival, but self-worth: authentic, unconditional, neurodivergent self-worth.

Will you wake up tomorrow unmasked, healed, and free? No. Healing doesn’t work like that. But you might pause before apologizing for something you didn’t do.

You might speak a truth instead of swallowing it.

You might hear the inner critic and choose to answer with kindness instead of obedience.

And with each act of truth, you take a step closer to yourself. Toward the recognition that you don’t need to disappear to be loved. That you don’t need to perform to be worthy.

That you were never too much. You were always enough. Exactly as you are.

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Masking burnout: The burden of performing ‘neurotypical’

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 7 minutes

Have you ever caught yourself mid-sentence and thought, “Wait, don’t say that. That’s too much”? Or forced a smile you didn’t feel, nodded when you disagreed, or laughed along to avoid standing out?

Of course you have, because you’re human. We all adjust in social situations. But if you’re autistic or ADHD, that adjustment might not feel optional. It might feel essential. To keep your job. Avoid conflict. Be liked. Stay safe.

And that effort—that constant self-monitoring—can lead to something deeper and far more exhausting: masking burnout.

Masking burnout is what happens when we spend so much time and energy performing as someone we’re not, we lose touch with who we actually are. It’s the emotional and physical toll of living behind a mask you were never meant to wear in the first place.

Where Masking Begins: The Lessons We Don’t Know We’re Learning

Masking doesn’t start when we get a job or go to college. It begins long before that, usually in childhood, and often without us even realizing it.

Maybe it starts with a teacher giving us a look when we speak out of turn. Or a parent sighing when we ask another question that seems “weird.” Or a classmate calling us “too much” for sharing a special interest they don’t understand. These aren’t always overtly cruel moments, but they teach us something profound: “Be less like yourself, and more like them.”

For many autistic and ADHD kids, social rejection comes from simply being different. Maybe you spoke too bluntly. Reacted too quietly. Flapped your hands or fidgeted. These things were natural to you, but they weren’t seen as “normal.” And so, little by little, you learned to shrink.

That’s where the mask begins to form as a matter of survival. You start scanning for the behaviors that get praised… and hiding the ones that don’t. You become a master of adaptation, often before you can even name what you’re doing.

Over time, this performance becomes automatic. You stop asking, “What do I want to say or do?” and instead ask, “What’s going to keep me safe?”

The problem is: the more automatic it becomes, the harder it is to take the mask off. When the effort to constantly reshape yourself becomes unsustainable, masking burnout ensues. Because you’ve been doing it for so long, you can’t remember who you were before.

The Performance Never Ends: When the Mask Becomes Your Identity

Sociologist Erving Goffman once said that life is like a stage, and we are all actors playing different roles. There’s the front stage, where we present ourselves to others at work, in school, online. And then there’s the backstage, where we can be real. Relaxed. Unfiltered.

But if you’re neurodivergent, that backstage often doesn’t exist. The performance doesn’t stop when the audience leaves, because the audience is everywhere. Sometimes, it’s your boss. Your partner. Your family. Sometimes, it’s you.

We keep monitoring our tone. Replaying conversations. Rehearsing future ones. We wonder if we were too much. Not enough. Too intense. Too awkward. We do it so automatically that it stops feeling like a choice. It just is.

Even when we’re alone, we might still be following a script: a collection of unspoken social rules we’ve picked up over a lifetime of trial and error. Smile, but not too big. Laugh, but not too loud. Ask questions, but not too many. Hide the stimming. Don’t talk about your special interest unless they ask. Don’t be weird.

But here’s the thing: social scripts written by neurotypicals rarely include neurodivergent voices. We’re forced to memorize a play that was never written for us.

And when we finally master it, the applause we get—”You’re so well-spoken!” “You seem totally fine!”—becomes another reminder that no one sees the real us.

Behind the mask, we’re exhausted. But we’re also afraid. Because if we stop performing… will we still be accepted?

Masking, Camouflaging, and Compensating: Three Paths to Burnout

By now, you’ve probably realized that “masking” isn’t just one thing. It’s a collection of behaviors—often unconscious—that we use to navigate a world that wasn’t built with us in mind.

Let’s break it down:

Masking

This is when we actively suppress or hide parts of ourselves that might be judged or rejected. Maybe you flap your hands when excited, but stop when someone gives you a look.

Maybe you’re overwhelmed, but instead of asking for a break, you smile and say you’re fine. You force eye contact even though it makes your skin crawl. You sit still when your body is begging to move.

Masking is about avoiding notice. It’s fear-driven. And for many of us, it starts so early we don’t even know we’re doing it.

Camouflaging

This goes a step further: it’s imitating neurotypical behavior to blend in. We laugh at the right time. Mirror others’ body language. Memorize small talk. Say “I’m good, how are you?” even when we’re dissociating. We train ourselves in facial expressions and tone so as to seem “normal.”

Camouflaging is about being liked, accepted, hired, or included. It’s strategic. And it’s also exhausting.

Compensating

This is when we build elaborate mental workarounds to overcome the challenges we face, like sensory overload, executive dysfunction, or social confusion.

If you struggle with auditory processing, you might stall with a vague response until you figure out what was said. If you can’t read facial expressions easily, you might memorize “emotional cheat codes.” You use reminders, scripts, and backup plans just to keep up with what others do effortlessly.

Compensating is about keeping up appearances. But it often means over-functioning to the point of depletion.

Each of these behaviors might help us survive in specific settings. But together, they create an overwhelming cognitive load. We’re constantly monitoring, adjusting, and self-policing.

And that’s how masking burnout creeps in, until we’re running on fumes and wondering why everything feels so hard, including the basics, like getting out of bed or replying to a friend.

Because it’s not just the mask that’s heavy. It’s the silence underneath it.

When You Become the Mask: Internalized Ableism and Identity Loss

At first, masking can feel like a skill. A secret weapon. It helps us avoid conflict, earn praise, survive social minefields.

But over time, something happens. We stop remembering where the mask ends and we begin.

Eventually, you stop pushing back. You stop asking if the system is flawed and start believing you are.

This is internalized ableism: when the world’s discomfort with neurodivergence becomes your own. You become your own harshest critic. You pre-reject yourself to soften the blow. You police your behavior before anyone else can. You perform not just to be liked, but to avoid being hated by others and yourself.

And here’s the heartbreaking part: the more skilled you are at hiding, the harder it becomes to advocate for your needs. Because you’ve trained everyone—and maybe even yourself—to believe you’re fine.

This is why so many neurodivergents don’t ask for help. Why we hesitate to disclose. Why we don’t speak up even when we’re breaking inside.

Because we’ve absorbed a lie: “If you need help, you’re weak. If you struggle, it’s your fault. If you stop performing, you’ll lose everything.”

And that lie costs us everything: our relationships, our joy, our mental health… and our sense of self.

The Hidden Costs of Masking Burnout

At first, masking might seem like a solution. A way to fit in. To get through the day. To stay safe.

But masking isn’t free. It comes at a cost, and most of that cost is hidden. Behind every polished sentence and carefully timed smile is a nervous system running on overdrive. Behind every compliment about how “well you’re doing” is a body in survival mode. Behind every quiet “I’m fine” is someone who’s absolutely not fine.

Masking can lead to a state of chronic hypervigilance. And the longer you stay in that state, the more your system starts to break down.

Here’s what masking burnout can look like:

Chronic exhaustion. No amount of rest seems to help.
Emotional numbing or dissociation. You go through the motions but feel detached from everything.
Shutdowns or meltdowns. Often delayed until you’re finally alone.
Social withdrawal. Even from people you love, because you just don’t have the energy to pretend anymore.
Imposter syndrome. Wondering if your success is real or just the result of good acting.
Crippling self-doubt. Constantly questioning whether people like the real you, or just your mask.

The longer you wear the mask, the heavier it becomes. And the more it fuses with your skin, the harder it is to believe there was ever someone real underneath it.

This is the core of masking burnout: you’re working harder than ever just to stay afloat — and no one even sees you sinking.

What Unmasking Actually Looks Like

Here’s the truth: most of us can’t just tear off the mask and walk away, because much of the time it’s still protecting us.

In certain workplaces, families, or social circles, the mask is a shield. A survival strategy.

But if the mask has started to suffocate you—if you no longer remember who’s underneath—that’s where unmasking begins.

And no, unmasking doesn’t mean oversharing. It doesn’t mean rejecting structure or becoming radically raw in every interaction. It means reconnecting with yourself, little by little, in places where it’s safe.

It can look like:

Letting yourself stim (even if just at home) without apology.
Asking a friend to text instead of call.
Speaking at your natural pace, even if it’s slower or more animated than others expect.
Saying “I don’t have capacity for that right now,” instead of forcing yourself to say yes.
Taking a break before you crash.
Pausing to ask yourself, “What would I do right now if I wasn’t trying to be ‘appropriate’?”

Unmasking often starts quietly. Privately, through a thousand small choices that say, “I deserve to be real. And with each act of truth, the weight of masking burnout lifts.

You don’t have to bulldoze your whole life to begin healing. Just make space—even five minutes a day—where your nervous system can exhale and your body doesn’t have to perform.

That version of you beneath the mask? They’ve been waiting.

Final Thoughts

Masking might have helped you survive. But survival isn’t the same as connection. It’s not the same as peace.

If you’ve been living behind a mask for so long that you’re not sure who you are anymore, you’re not alone. And you’re not defective. You’ve been adapting to a world that didn’t make space for your way of being.

But healing is possible. Bit by bit, you can begin to reclaim your energy, your truth, and your identity.

Masking burnout is real. But it’s not permanent. There is a self beneath the performance. And they are not too much. Not too weird. Not too sensitive. And they deserve to breathe.

Have you experienced masking burnout? What does unmasking, even in small moments, look like for you?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD Identity

How compliance culture silences neurodivergent voices

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 4 minutes

Have you ever noticed how quickly people shift when you stop playing by the rules?

Not legal rules, but the subtle, invisible ones. The ones that tell you how to sit, speak, smile, react. The ones that reward you for blending in and quietly penalize you for standing out.

You say what you mean, and someone winces. You stim or flinch, and someone stares. You don’t match the mood or tone, and suddenly, you’re “off.”

This shift isn’t in your head. It’s a product of compliance culture—a web of social expectations designed to keep everyone in line. For neurodivergent people, that line is especially narrow. And stepping outside it, even for a second, can cost you.

What Compliance Culture Really Looks Like

Compliance culture is more than just rules about behavior. It’s an entire atmosphere; a quiet, persistent demand to be easy. Easy to understand. Easy to manage. Easy to forget.

It shows up when a teacher calls you “disruptive” for asking too many questions. When your manager raises an eyebrow because you skipped the team lunch to recover from a loud meeting.

When friends joke that you’re “a bit much” after you share something that genuinely excites you.

Over time, these signals accumulate into something heavy and hard to name.

That weight is compliance culture exerting pressure on your identity.

How Neurodivergent People Respond to Compliance Culture

Autistics and ADHDers often exist in contrast to what’s expected. We move, think, and respond in ways that don’t always fit neatly into the social flow. And for that, we’re often asked to do something subtle but insidious: self-edit.

Edit your pace of speaking. Edit your irregular gait. Edit your emotions so they don’t take up too much room.

You’re told—explicitly or not—that your presence is only welcome if it’s polished, predictable, and pleasant. Not intense. Not inconsistent. Not real.

And when you can’t meet those expectations, the consequences are often the withdrawal of warmth, of patience, of connection.

The Trouble With “Spiky” Abilities

Many neurodivergent people have what’s known as a spiky profile. Our abilities aren’t flat or predictable. They spike in some areas—deep knowledge, creative insight, emotional depth—and dip in others, like short-term memory, sensory processing, or small talk.

This mismatch confuses people. You might explain a complex system effortlessly, then forget to return a text. You might be calm in a crisis but unravel when the lights are too bright or the music’s too loud.

Compliance culture doesn’t allow for this kind of unevenness. It prefers consistency over complexity. When we can’t maintain a steady, expected performance, we’re met with frustration, not curiosity.

Instead of, “What do you need?” We hear, “Why can’t you just…?”

Burnout Disguised as Functioning

Masking—shaping yourself to appear more “acceptable”—is often rewarded. People praise you for being so “high functioning,” for how “well you manage.” But they don’t see the energy it takes.

They don’t see the days where basic tasks feel like running uphill through an active mudslide. They don’t see the sensory overload, or the panic when a routine is thrown off or your brain short-circuits from too much noise.

They only see the moment you stop coping, and then they act surprised. As if the warning signs weren’t visible all along. As if you suddenly became someone else.

That’s the trap of compliance culture: perform until you break, and then be blamed for breaking.

Compliance Culture Is Systemic

This pressure doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It’s embedded into institutions.

In school, it’s the child who finishes worksheets quietly who gets labeled “gifted,” even if they’re quietly falling apart inside.

At work, it’s the employee who doesn’t ask for accommodations who gets seen as a “team player.”

In healthcare, it’s the patient who doesn’t push back who gets called “compliant”, a term that says so much about who the system is designed to serve.

This happens because neurotypicals get to determine which behaviors are seen as “normal,” and which are flagged as disruptions. That’s structural ableism.

What Gets Lost When We Comply

Every time you contort yourself to meet an unspoken expectation as a neurodivergent, something gets chipped away.

That impulse you stifle. That laugh you mute. That question you don’t ask. It adds up.

And over time, it becomes harder to tell the difference between who you are and who you’ve had to become just to be allowed in the room.

That’s what makes compliance culture so dangerous.

Pushing Back: What Resistance Can Look Like

Undoing the impact of compliance culture doesn’t mean becoming reckless or confrontational. It means practicing something quieter, but far more radical: honesty.

It might look like letting yourself stim in public without apology. Turning off your camera on Zoom when your sensory load is too high. Correcting someone when they misinterpret your silence as disinterest. Saying “I need a minute” instead of pretending you’re okay.

It’s about reclaiming your right to show up as yourself, and not the polished version others find more comfortable.

And yes, that might make some people uncomfortable. But discomfort isn’t danger. Discomfort is how people grow.

Final Thoughts

Compliance culture tells us that our differences are obstacles to connection. That to be accepted, we must be less us. But what if that’s a lie?

What if our difference isn’t the problem, but the key?

If you’ve ever felt like your existence depended on being manageable, I want you to know this: you don’t have to perform your way into belonging. You deserve to take up space as you are.

Not because you’ve masked well enough. Not because you’ve earned it through labor. But because you’re human, and that should be enough.

What’s one expectation you’ve stopped following in order to honor your neurodivergent self?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD Identity

5 common autistic/ADHD survival strategies—and what to do instead

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 4 minutes

Picture this: you’re in a meeting. You’ve been masking for hours. Someone cuts you off mid-sentence, and suddenly you freeze. Your thoughts spiral. Your chest tightens. You say nothing for the rest of the day.

If you’re autistic or ADHD, this might not be unusual.

You may have been told you’re “too sensitive” or “not resilient enough.” But what if those responses weren’t signs of weakness…. just survival strategies? And what if, instead of trying to “fix” yourself, you learned to support the version of you who had to develop them?

Let’s explore five survival strategies that helped many neurodivergents (NDs) get through an ableist world, and five empowering, neurodivergent thriving strategies to replace them.

Survival Strategy 1: Depressive Withdrawal

When the world feels punishing, pulling away can seem like the safest option. You stop sharing. You shut down emotionally. You tell yourself, “I’m the problem.”

Maybe your ideas were dismissed growing up. Maybe every time you showed emotion, someone told you to “get over it.” Over time, retreating felt like protection.

But this withdrawal—while once necessary—can isolate you. You become a ghost in your own life, locked in a cycle of silence and self-blame.

💡 Neurodivergent Thriving Strategy: Get Curious

Instead of collapsing inward, gently investigate. What emotion came up? What belief got triggered?

Try using the “DISCOVER” journaling tool:

D – Detail the event (just the facts).
I – Investigate the past. Has this happened before?
S – Specify the shame script. (“I must be boring.”)
C – Clarify where it started. (Negative feedback from teachers, parents, etc.)
O – Observe your response. (Did you freeze, leave early, mask?)
V – Verify shared responsibility. (It’s not all on you.)
E – Evaluate your coping strategy.
R – Reflect like a friend. What would you say to someone else in your shoes?

This self-inquiry is one of the most powerful neurodivergent thriving strategies. It builds awareness, not shame.

Survival Strategy 2: Denial, Rumination & Retaliation

Someone gives you feedback. You immediately feel cornered. Maybe you get defensive. Maybe you shut down, but the whole conversation loops in your head for days. You imagine comebacks. You analyze every word.

If you have been punished in the past for showing up as your authentic neurodivergent self, even mild criticism can feel threatening. Retaliation or obsessive rumination protects your sense of self.

But this strategy is heavy. It keeps you stuck in high-alert mode, replaying pain instead of resolving it.

💡 Neurodivergent Thriving Strategy: Ground Yourself

Use grounding techniques to return to the present. One neurodivergent thriving strategy here is the “5-4-3-2-1” method:

5 things you see
4 things you can touch
3 things you hear
2 things you can smell
1 thing you can taste

Pair this with deep breathing (inhale 4, hold 4, exhale 6). Let yourself land in your body. When your nervous system feels safe, you can process experiences without spiraling.

Survival Strategy 3: Fantasy & Hyper-Fixation

Reality gets overwhelming, so you disappear—into your favorite show, a special interest, or an imagined world where you have full control.

Fantasy offers an escape from overstimulation and emotional exhaustion. Hyper-fixations bring joy—but they can also become cocoons that disconnect us from real needs and relationships.

💡 Neurodivergent Thriving Strategy: Share the Fire

Your passion is a gift. With the “SPARK” method, you can channel it into connection:

S – Select a passion (insects, video games, poetry).
P – Pursue community (Reddit, Discord, fan spaces).
A – Articulate your story. Why does this interest matter to you?
R – Reflect on how it feels to share.
K – Keep the flame alive. Your joy deserves to be seen.

Of all the neurodivergent thriving strategies, this one is about reclaiming belonging. You don’t have to hide what lights you up.

Survival Strategy 4: Making Restitution

You over-apologize. You explain yourself 10 times. You feel like you always have to “make up for” being too much, or not enough.

This often stems from internalized ableism. You were taught that your way of being was wrong. So you hustle for worthiness by fixing, pleasing, over-functioning. But you’re not defective. You don’t need to earn acceptance.

💡 Neurodivergent Thriving Strategy: Speak Your Truth

Try using the “DEAR MAN” technique to ask for what you need:

D – Describe the situation clearly.
E – Express your feelings without blame.
A – Assert your need.
R – Reinforce how it will help.
M – Mindfully stay on point.
A – Appear confident.
N – Negotiate, if needed.

Example: “I get overwhelmed after family gatherings. I’d love a short quiet break before we jump into games. It helps me stay present and connected.”

This is one of the most liberating neurodivergent thriving strategies, because it rewrites the belief that your needs are a burden.

Survival Strategy 5: Masking, Camouflaging & Compensation

You smile when you’re uncomfortable. You mimic “normal” behavior. You hide your sensory needs, your stims, your real self, as you don’t feel safe to be fully seen.

Many autistics and ADHDers mask just to survive. But long-term masking erodes your sense of identity and leads to exhaustion and burnout.

💡 Neurodivergent Thriving Strategy: Modulate

Modulating is about adjusting for context while staying authentic. Use the “TWEAK” method:

T – Take stock: What’s your default communication style?
W – Weed out one element to shift.
E – Execute the tweak in a low-stakes setting.
A – Assess how it felt. Did it help or hinder?
K – Keep refining. Build a “social toolbox.”

Modulation is a sustainable neurodivergent thriving strategy that offers flexibility without self-erasure.

Final Thoughts

Every one of these survival strategies was born from wisdom. From your body trying to protect you. From your brain navigating a world that wasn’t designed with you in mind. But surviving is not the same as thriving.

You don’t have to perform anymore. You don’t have to over-function, retreat, or hide. You are allowed to take up space, ask for what you need, and build a life that actually supports your neurotype.

So take a breath. Choose one small shift. And remember, thriving isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about finally becoming yourself.

What survival strategies have you recognized in yourself? And which neurodivergent thriving strategies are you beginning to explore?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD Identity

Why gatekeeping makes autism and ADHD diagnosis harder—and more harmful

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

Have you ever felt like your life might finally make sense, if only someone would really listen?

Maybe you’ve spent years navigating anxiety, executive dysfunction, or sensory overwhelm, only to be told: “That’s just stress.” “You’re too articulate.” “You’re doing fine.” “That’s not what autism or ADHD looks like.”

It’s invalidating. It’s disorienting. And, unfortunately, neurodivergence diagnosis gatekeeping is more common than it should be.

Diagnosis Isn’t Just a Process—It’s a Privilege

Let’s be real: getting a formal autism or ADHD diagnosis as an adult? It’s often inaccessible, unaffordable, and emotionally exhausting.

Here’s a hypothetical examples. After waiting 18 months to see a specialist, Maya, a 32-year-old nonbinary artist, was dismissed within 20 minutes because she “maintained eye contact” and held down a job. Never mind her lifelong struggles with shutdowns, masking, executive dysfunction, and sensory distress. She left the appointment feeling more confused—and more invisible—than ever.

If you don’t fit the narrow mold clinicians are taught—based on white, cis male children who are hyperactive or overtly socially “awkward”—you may be misdiagnosed or brushed off entirely. Especially if you’re a woman, trans, nonbinary, or a person of color.

The result? A system that gatekeeps care and invalidates experience—one that tells neurodivergents (NDs), “You’re not enough like them to count.”

Neurodivergence diagnosis gatekeeping not only delays support—it also chips away at trust in providers, and in ourselves.

The Cost of Being Undiagnosed

Before many even reach the point of seeking a diagnosis, they’ve often already paid a heavy emotional toll.

You might have grown up hearing that you were lazy, disorganized, too sensitive, too intense—or just “too much.” You may have spent your life trying to be “better,” without realizing that your struggles were linked to undiagnosed autism or ADHD.

Maybe you’ve over-apologized in every conversation, fearing you’ve said the “wrong thing.” Maybe you’ve masked every instinct to stim, fidget, or interrupt, just to “pass.” Or maybe you shut down emotionally after another failed attempt at socializing left you burnt out.

This is internalized ableism. It happens when our unmet needs are pathologized, and we start believing the problem lies with us—not with a world that wasn’t built for our brains.

Clinicians frequently miss neurodivergence because they diagnose only what they expect to see: anxiety, depression, trauma, maybe even borderline personality disorder. This is called diagnostic overshadowing, and it disproportionately affects people outside the “default” mold—especially those with intersectional identities.

So when people finally do seek answers, gatekeepers often tell them some version of: “This isn’t real.” “You’re overreacting.” “Try harder.”

The Power—and Controversy—of Online Self-Discovery

So where do people turn when the formal systems fail them?

More and more, it’s online spaces—where NDs are sharing their lived experiences with raw honesty and nuance. Social media, blogs, and forums have become places of recognition, healing, and validation.

Online, one person might realize their lifelong “clumsiness” was motor skills difference related to autism. Another might discover that their chronic procrastination and overwhelm weren’t moral failings—they were ADHD-related executive dysfunction.

Community validation can be life-changing. Many describe the moment they first encountered ND voices and thought, “Wait. That’s me.” It was the first time their story had ever made sense.

Critics of self-diagnosis argue it’s reckless or misinformed. But most people who self-identify do so carefully—after years of struggling without answers, devouring research, and often feeling gaslit by medical professionals.

Self-diagnosis, in this context, isn’t attention-seeking. It’s a form of survival. It’s what happens when neurodivergence diagnosis gatekeeping makes formal recognition unattainable.

Essy Knopf neurodivergence diagnosis gatekeeping

What If We Let Neurodivergent People Define Themselves?

Here’s a radical thought: What if we trusted people to know themselves?

Gatekeeping assumes there’s one “real” way to be autistic or ADHD. But neurodivergence doesn’t look one way. It can be masked. It can be internalized. It can show up in emotional meltdowns or in frozen shutdowns, in hyperfixation or burnout.

What if the focus shifted from proving you’re “disabled enough” to simply being understood?

We don’t need fewer people claiming their neurodivergence—we need systems that meet people where they’re at. That means:

Training clinicians in diverse neurodivergent presentations
Reducing wait times and cost barriers
Listening to lived experiences as valid data
Creating neuroaffirming, not pathologizing, care models

The current system doesn’t just gatekeep diagnoses. It gatekeeps recognition, healing, adaptation, and transformation.

Final Thoughts

If you’ve ever wondered whether you might be autistic or ADHD, but were met with doubt or dismissal—know this: your experiences are valid, and you deserve support.

Gatekeeping helps no one. But sharing our stories? That changes everything.

Have you experienced gatekeeping around autism or ADHD diagnosis? What helped you move forward—or what support do you still need?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD Identity

Neurodivergent unmasking explained: How to reclaim your authentic self

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

Have you ever come home from a day of socializing or work and felt like you’ve run a marathon, but can’t point to a single thing you did that would explain the exhaustion? That’s the invisible toll of neurodivergent unmasking.

For many of us—autistics, ADHDers, or both—the effort to “pass” in neurotypical (NT) spaces is constant, and it’s often a question of survival.

We adjust facial expressions, suppress our stims, rehearse small talk, and hold back our true thoughts. And we do it all hoping to be accepted, or at least not rejected.

What Exactly Is Neurodivergent Masking?

Neurodivergent unmasking refers to the process of consciously peeling back those layers of performance we’ve worn to fit in. Before we get to that point, most of us have spent years perfecting a system of:

Masking: Actively hiding traits that might be seen as “weird” or “too much”, like avoiding eye contact, or suppressing repetitive movements.
Camouflaging: Adopting NT social behaviors to blend in, like fake laughing, mirroring body language, or scripting conversations.
Compensating: Creating workarounds for challenges, like using apps to manage focus or memorizing emotional cues to avoid social missteps.

Often, we don’t even realize we’re doing it. These strategies become second nature because we’ve been taught—directly or indirectly—that our natural way of being is “wrong.” Neurodivergent unmasking begins when we start to notice this pattern and wonder what life might feel like if we didn’t have to filter ourselves so constantly.

The Emotional Cost of Constant Performance

Most of us began masking in childhood. It is because we wanted to deceive others, but because we quickly learned that showing our true selves often led to confusion, ridicule, or rejection.

Over time, this disconnect between how we act and how we feel inside can create deep internal conflict. We may ask ourselves: “Do they like me, or just the version of me I’ve carefully curated?” “Am I succeeding because I’m skilled, or because I’ve gotten good at pretending?”

That’s where imposter syndrome sneaks in. Even when we’re praised, it can feel like the validation isn’t truly ours, because it was earned by the masked version of us, not the real one. Neurodivergent unmasking is about bridging that gap between performance and authenticity.

The Inner Critic: Masking’s Shadow Side

When masking becomes a lifestyle, it often feeds a harsh inner critic. This voice carries all the messaging we’ve internalized: “Tone it down.” “You’re too sensitive.” “Act normal.”

It tells us that being our full selves is risky. That we must shrink or reshape who we are to gain approval. But here’s the thing: no matter how much we adjust, that inner critic is never satisfied. It keeps moving the goalposts.

The journey of neurodivergent unmasking often involves confronting this critic, recognizing that its demands are rooted in ableism, not truth. And then slowly, deliberately, choosing to show up anyway.

Why Neurodivergent Masking Is So Exhausting

Masking is both emotionally draining and physically taxing. Each moment of self-monitoring consumes energy. We analyze how we’re coming across, anticipate reactions, and course-correct in real-time. It’s like running dozens of mental tabs at once.

By the end of the day, many of us are completely depleted. This constant drain is known as “ego depletion”: mental fatigue caused by sustained self-control. No wonder we often collapse into silence, isolation, or shutdown once we’re alone.

Neurodivergent unmasking allows us to start reclaiming that energy for ourselves.

So How Do We Start Unmasking?

Neurodivergent unmasking doesn’t mean being vulnerable everywhere, with everyone, all at once. It means being strategically authentic; choosing the people, spaces, and moments where you can safely let your guard down.

Start small:

Allow yourself to stim in front of people you trust.
Let your infodumping shine when your passion is welcomed.
Practice saying things like, “I do things differently, and that’s okay.”
Ask for accommodations. Like breaks, dimmer lighting, or quiet space.

Let go of the pressure to be palatable. You’re not “too much”. You’ve just been trying to exist in spaces that asked you to be less.

Rewrite the Narrative

We’ve been told we need to mask to succeed. But what if that’s a lie?

What if your unique brain, your intense passions, your honesty, and your deep empathy are actually your superpowers?

Neurodivergent unmasking is about rewriting the story. It’s about naming your strengths, honoring your needs, and making space for joy and connection on your own terms.

Think about the moments when you were fully yourself, and someone responded with warmth, not rejection. The times when your authenticity led to connection, creativity, or relief. Let those moments be your anchor.

Final Thoughts

Masking might have helped you survive. But you deserve to live.

Neurodivergent unmasking is a process, not a destination. It takes practice, safety, and support. But every time you show up as your real self, even just a little, you’re reclaiming your identity. You’re rewriting the rules.

Have you begun your own unmasking journey? What helped you feel safe enough to be more yourself, and what challenges are you still facing?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD Identity

The cost of conformity: What my sci-fi novel reveals about neurodivergent masking

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

What if survival meant becoming someone else—every thought filtered, every gesture rehearsed, every word chosen to match what others expect of you?

That’s the world Shayan lives in. He’s the protagonist of Nepo, my new YA sci-fi novel. But for many of us—especially those of us who are autistic or ADHD—it’s not fiction. It’s our lived experience.

Nepo is the book I needed as a teen. It’s also the book I needed as an undiagnosed neurodivergent (ND) adult—someone trying desperately to understand why the world felt like it wasn’t made for me.

The Mask We Wear to Survive

Like many NDs, I learned early that being “different” meant being misunderstood. I walked funny. I spoke differently. I was obsessed with bugs, then words, then fiction. Social cues felt like an invisible game with constantly changing rules—and I was always one move behind.

I learned to mask. Masking meant smiling when I was in sensory overload. It meant pretending not to care when I was excluded. It meant hiding the parts of me that didn’t “fit.”

So when I sat down to write Nepo, I wasn’t just creating a sci-fi story—I was creating a mirror. One where a character like Shayan, forced to perform for his survival, could give voice to something deeply personal: the unbearable weight of never being allowed to just be.

From Hollywood Glamor to Dystopian Control

I spent seven years in Los Angeles, working in film and media. I saw the curated personas, the constant pressure to stay “on brand.” Celebrities weren’t just people—they were products.

That’s what inspired Nepo‘s world. Shayan isn’t just any clone—he’s bred to replicate a long-dead Hollywood icon. His every move is scripted. One misstep, and he’s discarded.

Fame in Nepo is a cage. And for NDs, the pressure to perform—to meet neurotypical (NT) standards—is often a cage, too. One lined not with gold, but with shame, anxiety, and burnout.

A Future That Feels Familiar: Enter Neuropunk

I call Nepo “neuropunk.” It’s a subgenre I’m helping shape—one that centers ND experiences in speculative fiction. Think cyberpunk, but instead of focusing on tech, neuropunk focuses on how ND minds resist systems built to control or erase them.

In Nepo, society is split between the privileged “enclavers” and the oppressed “endis”—a mostly neurodivergent underclass whose labor sustains the city but whose identities are erased.

It’s dystopian, yes. But let’s be honest—it’s not far from reality.

Shayan’s Realization: The Egg Cracks

Shayan doesn’t know he’s “endi.” He just knows he feels…wrong. Like something doesn’t add up. That feeling of disconnection? Of not knowing why you’re always the odd one out? That’s familiar to many ND readers.

Eventually, Shayan discovers the truth—he’s not broken. He’s just different. ND.

It’s the “egg crack” moment. The moment so many of us experience when we finally get the language to describe our brain. When the mask starts to slip and we realize—maybe we never needed it in the first place.

That realization is liberating. But it’s also complicated. Because unmasking doesn’t erase years of shame. It doesn’t instantly rebuild your identity. And it doesn’t stop the world from demanding conformity.

Masking Hurts—But So Does Being Real

One of the questions Nepo asks is: What happens when the mask becomes who you are?

That’s what makes masking so insidious. Over time, it erodes our self-concept. We lose track of where the performance ends and where we begin. We internalize the idea that our real selves are unacceptable. That survival means self-erasure.

I’ve seen this pain in my clients. I’ve lived it myself.

And I wanted Nepo to hold space for that grief. To say: You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re reacting to a world that hasn’t made space for you.

Storytelling as Resistance

Speculative fiction gives us the distance we need to tell the truth.

Nepo isn’t just about one clone’s rebellion. It’s about systemic oppression, identity, and the radical act of self-acceptance. It’s about choosing authenticity in a world that punishes it.

And at the heart of the story is a plea: Let us be real. Let us be whole. Let us be seen.

Representation That Goes Beyond Stereotypes

I didn’t see myself in books growing up. Autistic characters, if they existed, were usually emotionless geniuses or comic relief. Rarely were they nuanced, messy, real.

I wrote Nepo for the readers like me. For the weird kids. The hyper-focused teens. The stimmers. The ones who got in trouble for being “too much.” The ones who’ve spent years trying to figure out why they feel alien on their own planet.

Shayan isn’t a trope. He’s a full person—conflicted, hopeful, and worthy of belonging. Because all of us are.

A Free Gift (And a Small Request)

If this story resonates with you, I’m offering Nepo as a free digital download for a limited time. All I ask is that you leave a review—let me know what spoke to you, what challenged you, what stayed with you.

I wrote Nepo because I believe stories can heal. And I hope it helps you feel just a little more seen, understood, and unmasked.

Have you ever felt like your life was a performance? Have you had your own “egg crack” moment?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD Identity Wellbeing

Neurodivergents mask to survive systemic ableism—but at what cost?

Essy Knopf6 Comments

Reading time: 6 minutes

Autistic/ADHD individuals learn early on that if they want to survive in a society shaped by systemic ableism, they have to mask their true selves.

But over time, masking damages our self-worth. And it may fuel internalized ableism. So why then do we persist in doing it?

While accommodations are sometimes made for people with disabilities/who are neurodivergent (ND), they are by far the exception to the rule.

In the case of autism and ADHD, accommodations can be even less likely, due to what clinicians call “disguised presentation”. That is, neurodivergence isn’t always that obvious, in some cases because the autistic/ADHDer is working very hard to keep their struggles hidden.

Neurotypicals (NTs) as a result may expect NDs to meet the same standards as people just like them, setting the bar for acceptance impossibly high.

When NTs expect ND folk to think and behave as they do, the moment the ND individual drops their mask—for example, by being overly direct or failing to read social cues—the NT will attribute that lapse to another cause, such as them being “selfish” or “rude”.

They may even respond by criticizing, judging, punishing, and excluding the ND.

Systemic ableism & microaggressions

The issue here is not merely that NTs are intolerant of neurodiversity and the differences it presents. It’s that NTs, in general, operate from baseline expectations that are ableist.

Most are oblivious to the extent to which this ableism informs their thinking, resulting in microaggressions: the “commonplace daily verbal, behavioral or environmental slights, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative attitudes toward stigmatized or culturally marginalized groups” (see Microaggressions in Everyday Life).

Microaggressions can happen even within the families of ND folk. For instance, I remember my own parents calling me “antisocial” for my tendency to choose the company of books and computers over that of other human beings.

They also play out at school, with kids slapping all kinds of hurtful labels upon their ND peers.

I recall even teachers telling me that I lacked “common sense”, and that my handwriting was “poor” and “sloppy”. Turns out, all of these traits were part and parcel of my being ND.

But even having a diagnosis doesn’t necessarily guarantee understanding and compassion.

Shortly after I was told I was autistic, I had a friend suddenly touch me from behind. When I reacted with shock and explained my reasons, this friend responded by cussing out my “Asperger syndrome”. (Note: This was my diagnosis at the time. It is now considered to be an outdated term and no longer exists in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders).

Rather than apologizing for having startled me, this friend did what so many NTs did and called out my autism as being the problem.

Miscommunications & Theory of Mind

These misunderstandings are compounded by issues related to a skill called “Theory of Mind”.

Theory of Mind (ToM) has been defined as: “the ability to recognize and understand thoughts, beliefs, desires and intentions of other people in order to make sense of their behaviour and predict what they are going to do next”.

Researchers have claimed many ND folks have impaired ToM. What I’ve noticed however is that our unusual thinking style and behavior can also general a kind of temporary ToM impairment among NTs.

That is, NTs tend to ascribe NT motives to everyone, but doing this to ND folk can lead to confusion and misunderstanding. Turns on, there’s a name for this: the double empathy problem.

To give an example: when I got into trouble as a child, I would usually be upfront about the truth, believing that my confession would be taken at face value.

But protesting my innocence or admitting to my naivety would rarely win me favors. In one case, an adult suggested I was “stupid” for expecting them to believe my story.

What happened here was that this individual couldn’t fathom my intentions, and thus concluded my being honest had to be an act of deception.

Another example of this misattribution occurred during a visit to my parents. My mother told me she was going to fetch a can of tomatoes to make pasta sauce. With her fingers, she indicated that the can would be about the size of a bucket.

Knowing my mother had a tendency to bulk-buy, I assumed she indeed meant the can would be the size she suggested. Because of my impaired ToM, I interpreted her gesture literally.

When I expressed my confusion over why she wanted to use such a big can, it didn’t occur to my parents that I was genuinely confused. Instead, they accused me of being a smart aleck.

We mask because authenticity is risky

As I’ve mentioned, this tendency of NTs to not adjust expectations when dealing with an ND individual can sometimes be the result of the disguised presentation.

Specifically, when NDs present themselves as NT. In some cases, this camouflaging is deliberate, with the ND trying to mask their struggles for fear of being judged, attacked, or marginalized.

Like NTs, autistics want above all to be accepted for their authentic selves. But when ND authenticity collides with ableist expectations, as in the situations I’ve described, disaster can result.

Due to the double empathy problem, it can be hard to understand NTs and anticipate how they might react to our actions. So we become master imitators and concealers.

We mask, knowing that by hiding our neurodiversity, we are shielding ourselves against a perplexing and often hostile world.

Sometimes these compensations can be positive and adaptive, such as wearing headphones whenever out in public to compensate for sound sensitivities.

Other times, they are maladaptive. For example: avoiding talking about one’s interests, for fear of misreading social cues and rambling on.

But masking is self-defeating

NDs will often tell themselves that they need to change in order to fit NT expectations. But this really is an expression of internalized ableism.

Furthermore, ignoring your needs and hiding your differences as an ND is almost always self-defeating.

Years ago I had a friend who would invite me to the movies. Personally, I find sitting in a movie theater to be sensory torture, with people constantly rustling bags and crunching on popcorn.

Rather than explaining this to my friend, I went along with her invitations, usually at great discomfort to myself.

Feeling shame over my sensory problems, I refused to tell her about the issue. Eventually, I started making excuses for not being able to join my friend, who came to believe I was intentionally avoiding her.

Difficulties with executive function are common among ND folk. Personally, in the past, as a result of my ADHD, I have struggled with self-organizing, managing my time, and staying on track.

One time, a manager unloaded on me over this, accusing me of being self-absorbed and irresponsible.

Rather than reacting defensively, I admitted my mistakes and asked this manager how I could improve certain executive function skills. She replied by telling me that my request was “beyond the scope of her role”.

It was one thing to turn professional feedback into a personal attack, but to then deny me support was quite another.

This is, unfortunately, a common experience for NDs. Often we’re told that we have done wrong, without being told how to course correct.

Systemic ableism creates internalized ableism

Until I was diagnosed as autistic and ADHD, I didn’t have a framework by which to explain or defend my difference. Having long been challenged and attacked over my ND traits, defenses have usually felt necessary.

Of course, even without having fully understood the whys and hows of my challenges, I could have still spoken up and tried to negotiate accommodations.

What stopped me, however, was the belief that I was somehow choosing to be difficult. Having internalized ableism, I had come to feel inferior and ashamed of my differences.

My self-esteem consequently became conditional upon the approval of others. This led to me adopting a workaholic lifestyle in a bid to prove my worth to myself, and to others.

Personal boundaries blurred, to the point that I feared I was always somehow responsible when something went wrong.

Such was my shame that even after my diagnosis, I shied from the company of other NDs.

I convinced myself that the people who frequented autism and ADHD support groups weren’t like me, that I was somehow more “high functioning”—a term I’ve since realized is ableist.

What I feared—but dared not acknowledge—was that to be in their company might make me “one of them”.

Ableism creates so much stigma around disability/neurodivergence, that despite everything I knew, I still believed my autism and ADHD to be a kind of flaw or personal shortcoming.

Wrap up

Systemic ableism oppresses NDs by demanding we abandon our identities and silence our needs.

We can start countering it by leaning into authenticity, the practice Brené Brown defines as “letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are”.

One immediate way we can embrace our authentic ND selves is by seeking out fellow NDs around whom masking isn’t necessary.

The ND community exists to normalize individual experiences and to combat the stigma that can make being disabled/neurodivergent such an isolating experience.

ND readers, how does ableism show up in your life? Do you recognize any of the forms of internalized ableism I’ve described here? Drop a comment below.

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Why childhood autism and ADHD often go overlooked

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 5 minutes

Childhood autism and ADHD aren’t always obvious…except perhaps for the neurodivergent (ND) child themselves, who comes to the realization early on that they’re different.

It usually begins with other kids calling out our behaviors, telling us that we’re weird, or implying we’re inferior.

People clearly found me strange, but in my view, I was just unique and misunderstood. These two words perfectly summarized what it was like being an undiagnosed autistic and ADHDer in an ableist world.

They also describe why I often felt driven to mask my ND traits, and perhaps why many of them went overlooked.

But suppose I hadn’t masked. Suppose I made no attempt to conceal my supposed weirdness. Would I have received a diagnosis and received the necessary support sooner than I actually did?

Possibly—but possibly not. The lack of general awareness and education about autism and ADHD meant my traits would have continued to have been misattributed to my personality or (apparent lack of) intelligence.

This also comes down to the fact that autism and ADHD manifest quite differently for each individual. It thus requires a discerning eye to identify its presence.

Here’s how autism and ADHD showed up in my childhood.

Stimming: a common sign of childhood autism and ADHD

For years after receiving my autism (and later ADHD) diagnosis, I convinced myself that I had never stimmed. It was only upon hearing the accounts of other autistic people that in fact I did.

When I was living in the tropics, my favorite thing to do on a hot day was to chew on ice. Sure, it was refreshing, but the crunchiness of it was also deeply satisfying.

Another thing I loved to do was to play with chewing gum. Countless hours were spent blowing bubbles or pulling long strings of the stuff out of my mouth.

During long car rides, I would beatbox—it was a practice I never seemed to grow tired of.

When I was 12, I also went through a period of sucking obsessively on a certain toy. (By “toy”, I’m referring here to a balloon stuffed with flour, with a pair of googly eyes and a cap of yarn hair.)

It was a kind of sensory ball, and it lasted all of a few weeks before suddenly exploding and spraying flour all over me. Imagine having to explain this development to my parents!

Another big stimming activity for me was delivering a series of DoggoLingo-style monologues to animals, such as the family dog, in a made-up accent.

For days, weeks, months, and even years afterward, I’ve felt the urge to recite DoggoLingo phrases of affection to myself, at random, for no clear reason, over and over again.

This behavior I previously thought was echolalia, though I’ve since learned the correct term for this is palilalia: the delayed repetition of words or phrases.

childhood autism Essy Knopf — As a child, I was fanatical about animals.

Obsessive interests

My childhood autism/ADHD was perhaps most evident in my obsession with insects and spiders. Collecting factoids about each species proved a source of great delight.

In my teen years, my area of interest shifted to fiction writing. The fantasy worlds I created provided an escape from my confusing and often overwhelming reality.

Where previously I collected bug-related factoids, I started collecting new words, memorizing them straight out of the thesaurus.

There was a certain pleasure to be found in this mastery of meaning. To me, acquiring words represented the acquisition of some kind of secret, important knowledge.

Many of these words had a delicious quality to them. Consider for instance “lignite”. No idea what it means, but pronouncing it aloud just feels satisfying.

More than a decade later, riffling through a box of keepsakes, I would find ratty little lists of words I’d picked out from books, preserved since my teenagehood.

If you asked me to explain why I was keeping them, I’d be at a loss for…well, words. Even now, the very idea of throwing them away evokes pain.

The obsessive collecting didn’t stop there. At one point I received a pocket organizer with a digital address book, which I felt compelled to fill with phone numbers.

Despite the unusualness of my request, many of the people I asked at school obliged me by providing their own. I even worked up enough courage to ask my math teacher—of all people—for her details.

Suffice it to say, my teacher was not all too impressed, and I became the laughingstock of the class.

Social, environmental, and animal rights activism

An interest in environmental and social causes was one trait that’s typical of childhood autism.

I remember being age six and penning a handwritten letter to the Australian prime minister asking him to increase foreign aid to famine-stricken Sudan.

In fifth grade, I used my valuable show-and-tell time to lecture my peers about Captain Planet and climate change. While almost everyone rolled their eyes at me, I of course now have the satisfaction of knowing I was right all along!

My interest in animals also led to me adopting vegetarianism, a phase that lasted all of one year….before my mother tricked me into believing there was no meat in lunch meat.

Fixing things and the problem-solving mindset

When any of my toys broke or stopped working, I worked obsessively to try and fix them.

The most memorable example of this was a special doll that could pee when “fed” milk. At some point, the doll stopped peeing. Concluding that there must be some kind of internal blockage, my six-year-old self decided to clear this blockage using a reed.

Granted, this was not exactly ideal behavior for a would-be future parent, and yet this ability to hyper-fixate—a quality that appears in both ADHDers and autistics—would later prove quite advantageous, especially when it came to problem-solving.

The same probably couldn’t have been said of my tendency to always try and set things right. In second grade, my homeroom teacher one day warned my peers that someone had been stealing food and money from backpacks.

Our school didn’t have lockers. Students instead had to leave their backpacks on racks. Given most of my peers were leaving their bags unzipped, the temptation to would-be thieves naturally was great,

I thought long and hard about what I could do to fix this problem, then spent the following lunch break methodically zipping up every bag I could get my hands on.

I was a self-appointed Good Samaritan, but that wasn’t how two of my classmates saw it. They reported my apparently suspect behavior to the teacher, bringing a sudden end to my brief career as a school crimefighter.

Sensory sensitivities

As a child, I was accused of being a “picky eater”. What the adults around me didn’t understand was that I found certain foods extremely repulsive, usually because of their appearance, texture, taste, or a combination of all three.

One of these foods was yogurt. Another was a traditional Iranian stew my mother would make which contained red kidney beans and lamb shoulder called ghormeh sabzi.

Ghormeh sabzi was one of the few foods I devotedly ate, due to the delicious umami flavors, and yet I was extremely averse to doing so until the beans and lamb had first been removed.

Certain sensations could also make me very uncomfortable. Feeling my toenails against the surface of a pilling bedsheet was one of them. To avoid the possibility of contact, I became a stomach sleeper.

As for sleep, that was an activity that felt next to impossible unless I was under a sheet or blanket. Another requisite was that I needed to have a fan blowing on me—no matter the temperature.

Tags inside my clothes bugged me, and sometimes even my own underwear felt too tight.

One time, a teacher caught me trying to adjust my briefs through my pants and assumed I was having some kind of bladder problem.

Wrap up

As perfectly natural as these preferences and behaviors felt to me, the downside was often obvious and immediate: alienation.

In the eyes of my parents, peers, and teachers, I was either too finicky, too stubborn, too sensitive, too clueless, or too weird. And without a diagnosis, what cause did I have to disbelieve them?

But to view our authentic ND selves in such a light can leave a legacy of shame.

It’s only now, years later, that I realize the problem was less my difference than the ableist system that defined that difference as a problem.

So to all my fellow autistics and ADHDers experiencing self-doubt: don’t shy from authenticity. Embrace it as your fundamental right.

What were your ND traits as a child, and how did others react to them? Let me know in the comments.

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.