The Point of Divergence

Category: Personal Experience

  • My Experience Masking with AuDHD

    My Experience Masking with AuDHD

    So very confused

    When I was little, I remember watching a little boy dress up as a fireman and a little girl as a doctor and they pretended to save each other.

    Four-year-old-me felt confused watching them play—not because I didn’t understand why they were playing together, but because I didn’t understand how.

    I didn’t know how to invite others to play, join them, or engage with them continuously. I wondered, are there instructions for playing with friends?


    By the time I was ten, I noticed friend groups forming around me. I observed other kids playing and laughing together, listening carefully to what they said, trying to discover some sort of pattern I could emulate. I often thought, how do they know what to say to each other?

    I had friends, or rather, friends found me. I learned that it was easier to listen than to talk and risk saying the wrong thing. Some people seemed to appreciate my quiet demeanor, I was the “quiet girl.”

    Others, however, disliked how little I spoke. They were not afraid to let me know, and I felt very insecure about it.

    Building a better mask

    I thought everything would change once I became independent in college. I hoped I would eventually understand social interactions or grow out of naivety.

    That didn’t happen. So, I started reading books about making friends, small talk, and networking. I even switched my major to psychology, which helped me gain insight into how people function and think.

    When I engage in conversation, I have to remind myself to smile, make eye contact (but not too much), analyze others’ tone for sarcasm and words for metaphor (and translate into memorized definitions), think of appropriate responses, and control my tone.

    Frankly, it’s exhausting.


    Participating in group conversations is especially challenging because there are no clear rules about when I should speak. I sometimes say things that are inappropriate in tone or context, but I don’t realize until I get a clear reaction from others.

    For a neurodivergent person, masking or camouflaging refers to changing behaviors to fit in or hide neurodivergent traits (like pretending to understand sarcasm or suppressing stimming).

    I faced challenges forming and maintaining relationships my entire life. The better I built my mask, the more friendships I had. However, masking can lead to severe burnout. For myself, the result was anxiety and depression.

    The mask debate

    The debate: to mask or not to mask?

    On one hand, not masking can impact career and relationship stability or progression, potentially leading to isolation and negative mental health outcomes. Some consider masking to be a privilege that allows neurodivergent individuals to integrate into society.

    On the other hand, masking can also negatively impact mental and physical health. It is both unsustainable and unfair—why can’t I be accepted as I am?

    I am learning how to unmask and who I feel comfortable unmasking with. Unmasking for me is a vulnerable state and takes unlearning habits that I spent years forming. I still mask a majority of the time, though I set better boundaries on recovery time to buffer the negative effects.

    I’ve also learned some helpful skills and tricks, like asking someone politely if they intended a comment to be sarcastic. And now my partner is used to me sitting directly next to him at restaurants, as eye contact from directly across the table is challenging for me.

    Acceptance and community

    Growing up, I often felt like an alien from outer space, as if I were a character in a movie, being watched while trying to play a part without a script. I am learning to accept that I will never fully understand other people, and that my mask is both a survival skill and harmful in many ways.

    I am so grateful to now know that I am not alone in facing this challenge. In fact, I have a community who understands and accepts me. I hope that as a society, we can learn to recognize and accept neurodivergent traits to reduce bullying and social exclusion for those who do not mask. Until then, my dear neurodivergent friends, let’s continue to support and learn from each other.*

    *Especially those without a voice or a platform

  • My AuDHD Diagnosis: Everything and Nothing Changed

    My AuDHD Diagnosis: Everything and Nothing Changed

    Hello! My name is Sarah, and I’m writing this story with great uncertainty about the impact it will have on my life. This is the first time I am sharing my journey with autism and ADHD—often called AuDHD.

    Reaching my diagnosis was an arduous experience, and I hope that telling my story will make it easier for others to tell their own stories so they can be better understood and accepted.

    As a child, I could sleep for up to 14 hours and still wake up feeling tired. I was shy, socially nervous, and I held a lot of frustration inside myself. I picked at my skin when overwhelmed. My appetite was also minimal and inconsistent.

    The doctors ran all sorts of tests—blood work, ultrasounds, EKGs, and a stress test. The doctors seemed to run out of ideas, and they sent me on my way. My parents were trying to be supportive of my reported challenges, but what else could they do at that point?

    The hardest part wasn’t the lack of answers but the resulting doubt in my own reality. I learned the word hypochondriac on Google and started to believe that word described me.

    *Hypochondriac: “a person who continuously worries about their health without having any reason to do so.” Cambridge Dictionary. “Hypochondriac.” @CambridgeWords, 22 Oct. 2025, dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/hypochondriac. Accessed 23 Oct. 2025.

    Four years ago, I began working with children with developmental disabilities. The kids helped me understand and accept myself better. I started to wonder if I could be autistic.

    Initially, fear held me back—I feared that talking to a psychiatrist would lead to more dismissal. I frequently scheduled, rescheduled, and canceled appointments, oscillating between certainty and doubt that my challenges were worth addressing.

    During a routine check up, a new physician was reviewing my medical history. She asked me if my history of anxiety had been fully addressed. She was the first doctor that had ever cared to talk to me about my medical history instead of just reading the charts. I told the doctor, “I don’t think that my anxiety is just anxiety.” Without further questions, she provided a psychiatric referral.

    Within 15 minutes of my first appointment with a psychiatrist, I was recommended an evaluation for autism spectrum disorder. After receiving the results of the assessment (Autism and ADHD) it felt like everything and nothing changed.

    The symptoms stumping many doctors finally made sense, reframed as hypersensitivity, sensory aversions, autistic burnout, and resistance to change and transitions.

    If I chose to never tell anyone about the news, no one would be the wiser. But I had already spent most of my life trying to stretch myself to fit into a box that felt impossible to fill. Instead, I began a journey of embracing my neurodivergence, advocating for acceptance as I am, and learning from the greater neurodivergent community.

    As I started sharing my diagnosis with close friends and colleagues, many opened up with questions regarding their neurotypes. A common question that stemmed was, “What’s the point of getting assessed as an adult?” 

    For me personally, a diagnosis provided a single answer to many questions I have asked about myself. But that is just what my path was, and everyone’s path is unique.

    To anyone contemplating the value of an assessment or diagnosis, I want to emphasize that your feelings and struggles are valid. Regardless of your path—whether you pursue a diagnosis or not—know that you deserve support and acceptance as you are.