Unmasking: The Journey to Authenticity

The first time I saw the word “masking,” I cried. I was scrolling through an article late at night when the description stopped me in my tracks. For decades, I’d felt the constant, quiet pressure to smooth out my edges, to recalibrate every word and gesture. Suddenly, I had a name for the discomfort I’d carried my entire life.

Masking had been a survival mechanism - an instinct, not a conscious choice. I didn’t know I was masking because I didn’t have the language to describe what I was doing or why it felt so uncomfortable. But I knew something was off. It was as though I’d made an unspoken contract with the world: if I could just be quieter, smaller, and more agreeable - if I could hide the parts of me that felt like “too much” - I could avoid ridicule and rejection.

Finding the word “masking” gave me a framework to understand this discomfort. It validated the exhaustion I’d carried and opened the door to something I hadn’t dared to imagine: letting go of expectations I hadn’t even agreed to.

Unmasking - allowing myself to show up fully as I am - has been transformative. It has also been deeply fraught, forcing me to confront not just the years of masking, but the cost of survival itself. It’s messy, nonlinear, and full of contradictions - beautiful and painful in equal measure.

Masking, Survival, and the Role of Accommodation

For much of my life, masking (even if I didn’t have a word for it) felt like the only option. By middle school, I had learned how to avoid bullying by talking less, fawning over others, and carefully tailoring my behavior to meet people’s expectations. I didn’t know I was masking; I thought I was “getting along” or being adaptable. But the truth was, I wasn’t being myself. I was contorting myself into a version of “acceptable” that left me exhausted and disconnected from my own needs.

Masking doesn’t stop in childhood. It followed me into adulthood, showing up in professional spaces, friendships, and even romantic relationships. By my mid-20s, I relied on alcohol to make masking easier. Socializing and crowded spaces were overwhelming, but alcohol dulled the edges of that discomfort. For years, I thought it helped. But when I got sober, I realized just how much energy I’d been pouring into “having fun” - and how deeply it had drained me.

After my autism diagnosis at 35, everything began to shift. For the first time, I felt I had permission to accommodate myself, something that had never even occurred to me before. Shortly after my diagnosis, overwhelmed by the fluorescent lights and noise of my office, I decided to wear sunglasses at work for an entire day. To my surprise, I didn’t end the day with a headache. I cried in my car afterward, not just because I felt relief, but because I realized how long I’d ignored my own needs.

That day was a turning point. It was the first time I consciously chose to prioritize my well-being over other people’s comfort, and it felt revolutionary. Small acts of self-accommodation became the first steps toward reclaiming the parts of myself I’d suppressed for so long. Accommodation, I learned, wasn’t selfish; it was necessary.

The Complexity of Masking

Masking is complex because it is both a survival tool and a source of harm. For many neurodivergent people, masking isn’t a choice - it’s a way to navigate spaces that aren’t designed for us, a way to avoid ridicule, discrimination, or even harm. In that sense, it can protect us in the short term. But masking also requires us to suppress core parts of ourselves, leaving us exhausted, alienated, and often fragmented. Over time, the act of masking itself can become harmful, even as it helps us survive.

For some, masking can feel empowering - like a tool that allows them to navigate challenging environments with greater ease. For others, it can feel like an overwhelming burden. Most of us experience both at different times. Regardless of how masking feels, its necessity reflects the pressures of a society that demands conformity over authenticity.

Unmasking, then, isn’t just about rejecting societal expectations. It’s also about healing from the toll masking has taken - grieving what was lost and learning to reconnect with the parts of yourself you’ve hidden for so long.

For me, unmasking has meant sitting with the tension of these truths. It has meant grieving those parts while learning to celebrate the parts I’ve reclaimed. It’s uncomfortable and often contradictory, but it’s also where healing begins.

Diagnosis, Unraveling, and the Path to Joy

My autism diagnosis was a profound moment of clarity. It didn’t just explain why masking had been so central to my life - it gave me permission to stop. But unmasking didn’t happen overnight. It was a slow, nonlinear process that unraveled everything I thought I knew about myself. It led to me leaving my job at the local mental health authority, where masking had become a professional skill I relied on to the detriment of my health. It led to the end of my marriage, a relationship that depended on a version of me I no longer was able to or wanted to maintain.

Leaving these spaces felt like stepping into a void. The person I had been was disappearing, and I wasn’t yet sure who would take their place. But in that space, as painful as it was, I began to find the contours of my true self.

Unmasking didn’t just create loss - it created space. Space for the work I do now, which feels deeply aligned with my values. Space for the love I’ve found with Wyatt, a relationship where I can show up fully as myself. Space for joy - a life where I am accommodated and loved well while unmasked, free to explore my special interests, and to act like the autistic person I am - unapologetically.

Joy, for me, is excited stim-dancing around the living room with Wyatt, singing along to Folklore. It’s having my Christmas tree that only has dog ornaments because those are the ones I collect. It’s listening to my friend b infodump about Scrooge McDuck lore, knowing that my enthusiasm for her passion makes her feel safe and celebrated. For you, it might look different: rediscovering a lost passion, laughing with friends, or simply finding a moment of peace and accommodation. However it shows up, joy after unmasking feels expansive, even in the smallest moments.

Practical Insights for Unmasking

Unmasking is deeply personal and doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing. For those exploring this process, here are small ways to start:

• Experiment with Accommodations: Try small acts of self-accommodation that honor your needs, like adjusting sensory inputs (e.g., wearing sunglasses or noise-canceling headphones) or taking breaks in overstimulating environments.

• Start with Safe Spaces: Unmasking feels most sustainable when done in spaces where you feel emotionally and physically safe. This might be with close friends, a therapist, or even alone.

• Acknowledge Barriers: Unmasking isn’t always easy or accessible. For many, it’s tied to privilege - being in environments where authenticity is safe, or having the resources to explore accommodations. If you can’t unmask fully right now, that’s okay. Even small moments of self-acceptance can be a powerful step forward.

Unmasking isn’t about being your “real self” all the time - it’s about having the choice to show up authentically in ways that feel right for you.

What Masking and Unmasking Have Taught Me

Unmasking has taught me lessons I carry into every part of my life, including my work as a therapist. Here are a few key takeaways:

• Masking Is Both Necessary and Harmful.
  Masking helps us survive, but it also comes at a cost. The toll it takes on our mental health, identity, and relationships cannot be ignored.

• Accommodation Is Transformative.
  Small acts of self-accommodation can unlock profound relief and remind us that our needs matter.

• Joy and Integration Are Possible for Everyone.
  Whether your sense of self feels intact or fragmented, the journey toward wholeness is valid. Healing isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about discovering them along the way.

Moving Toward Integration

Unmasking is messy and deeply personal. It’s not a one-size-fits-all process, and it doesn’t mean you have to stop masking entirely. For me, it has been about finding balance - about having the choice to unmask, and about rediscovering joy and wholeness even when the process feels overwhelming.

Unmasking on an individual level is powerful, but we must also push for systemic changes - creating workplaces, schools, and communities that celebrate neurodiversity and prioritize accessibility. Because the ultimate goal isn’t just individual freedom - it’s a society where authenticity is met with acceptance and accommodation.

What has your experience with masking and unmasking looked like? What small moments of relief or joy have you found along the way - or what do you hope for in the future? I’d love to hear your reflections, no matter where you are in this process.