I’m Not “High-Functioning” — I’m Neurodivergent (And It’s About Time I Said It That Way)

I’ve always been neurodivergent. I just didn’t have the language — or frankly, the courage — to call it that until I was officially diagnosed this past November. For 47 years, I played an exhausting, complicated, Oscar-worthy role: 

Neurotypical Person #3. No lines, no character arc, just a whole lot of pretending. 

Because of that lifelong game of mental charades, I’ll admit — I’ve used some clumsy, problematic language to describe myself over the years. Labels like “low-functioning” or “high-functioning” crept into my vocabulary without me really understanding what they meant, or how much harm they could quietly cause. 

Spoiler: it’s a lot. 

Why Those Labels Miss the Mark 

The term “low-functioning” frames people with visible support needs or differences as somehow “less than.” It squashes the complexity, abilities, and value of people down to what others can see, ignoring the rich, often brilliant inner worlds they have. It measures a person’s worth by how easy it is for society to accommodate them. 

And that’s… well, nonsense. 

On the flip side, “high-functioning” gets lobbed at people like me — the ones who’ve spent a lifetime perfecting the art of masking. Of rehearsing social scripts like we’re prepping for a stage play nobody knows we’re in. Of mimicking what we think “normal” looks like, while inside we’re frantically juggling flaming swords of overwhelm, anxiety, and the occasional kitchen spoon for good measure. 

 

The “high-functioning” label makes people think you’re fine. That you don’t need support, or space, or grace. That your success means you’re not struggling. 

But it’s not fine. 

Here’s what gets buried under that shiny, high-functioning mask: 

🔹 Hours spent scripting conversations or rehearsing basic social exchanges like a sitcom character trying to nail their catchphrase, but no laugh track to reaffirm you got it right.

🔹 The sheer exhaustion of “performing normal” all day, only to collapse into a puddle of burnt-out goo by night. 

🔹 Mood swings dismissed as overdramatic, rather than what they are: a brain doing its absolute best while running Windows 95. 

🔹 Feeling overwhelmed by tasks others breeze through, like phone calls or remembering why you walked into a room. 

🔹 Rejection sensitivity so sharp it could slice bread. 

🔹 Stimming in public while desperately trying to make it look like “just checking your phone” or “adjusting your sleeve.” 

The Hidden Toll 

I knew I was different from the time I was a kid. But when nobody hands you a map for that kind of brain, you start learning to mimic, mask, and contort yourself to fit. After nearly five decades, I got really good at playing neurotypical. I could win awards for it. (Maybe a Golden Globe — the Oscars still seem like a stretch.) 

But like any long-running performance, it comes at a price: 

🔹 Wondering why tasks that seem effortless for others feel like wrestling a grizzly bear underwater. 

🔹 Straining relationships when you’re accused of “not paying attention” or “getting it wrong.” 

🔹 Days where you soar, followed by weeks slogging through mental molasses. 

🔹 Secret shame over talking to yourself, scripting imaginary conversations, or play-acting scenarios in your living room like it’s your own private theater. 

🔹 Wrestling with mental and emotional health because you didn’t know your brain wasn’t broken — it was just built differently. 

Breaking the Mold 

I’ve graduated university. I’ve thrived in leadership roles. I’m a solid communicator (especially if you give me a keyboard and a cup of coffee). I don’t fit the stereotypes people conjure when they hear ADHD or autistic. 

But I am. 

And knowing that has made the world make a whole lot more sense. 

Words matter. I know this — it’s literally my job. And so, I’m choosing them more carefully now. I’m letting go of “low-functioning” and “high-functioning.” I’m embracing neurodivergent — with all its weird, wonderful, challenging, messy, brilliant, beautiful forms. 

And if you’re out there somewhere, feeling like you’ve been performing your whole life too — know this: you don’t have to audition anymore.

Life From the Balcony 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned — perched up here on my metaphorical balcony, watching life swirl below in all its chaotic, beautiful mess — it’s this: we’re all a little weird. Some of us just got really good at hiding it. And honestly, what’s the point of a good view if you’re too busy pretending you’re somewhere else to enjoy it? 

I spent decades believing my quirks, my overwhelm, my relentless talking to myself while pacing around the kitchen, made me less than. Or at least, something to fix. But what I see now, clearer than ever, is that these parts of me are not flaws in the system. They’re features. 

Maybe not always convenient features — like heated seats in July — but features nonetheless. 

So, here’s to unmasking. To letting ourselves be wonderfully complicated. To ditching labels that shrink us, and embracing words that let us expand. Up here on the balcony, the view’s better when you stop worrying about whether you’re standing in the “right” spot. 

I’m neurodivergent. 

And it turns out, I always have been. 

It’s not a footnote. It’s part of the story. And I’m finally ready to tell it.