Unmasking Myself: Living and Thriving with AuDHD

For most of my life, I carried around an invisible, crushing weight that was something like a 50-ton sack of shame and guilt. I never quite understood why I felt that way, only that it was always there. It wasn’t until I learned about AuDHD — the co-occurrence of autism and ADHD — that I finally understood the source. And more importantly, I finally got permission to put it down.

Of course, just knowing you're neurodivergent doesn’t magically lift the burden. Shame and guilt are persistent companions for many AuDHDers. But a diagnosis, or even just the awareness, helps us begin the process of unloading it.

One of the hardest parts about being a late-diagnosed AuDHDer (especially one perceived as “low support needs”) is the invisibility of the disability. I don’t “look” disabled. I’m not in a cast or a wheelchair. There’s no bandage wrapped around my head. Instead, I’m camouflaging by mimicking, scripting, masking, all in a desperate bid to fit in, to be accepted, to be enough. And all the while, my internal battery quietly drains in the background.

Because of that invisibility, my struggles haven’t been seen as signs of a disability. They’ve been labeled as character flaws.

Lazy. Flaky. Disorganized. Angry. Weird. Blunt. Shy. Rude. Overly sensitive. Weak. Selfish. Oblivious. Slow. Dumb.

And when those judgments rain down, they’re often followed by “helpful” advice:

Try harder. Pay attention. Stay focused. Calm down. Think before you speak. Be more organized. Work harder. Be more thoughtful.

As if I haven’t spent decades trying.

But here's the thing: I’m not broken. I’m not a malfunctioning neurotypical. My brain is simply wired differently, and now, I’m finally learning how to support that wiring.

There are tools and strategies, and communities that help me function better in a world not designed for me. Not to “fix” me, not to scrub away my neurodivergence, but to help me navigate life with more understanding and less burnout. I’m learning those tools slowly. I’m also moving through a process called late diagnosis mourning (grieving what I lost by not knowing who I was for so long).

The two most powerful and most difficult lessons I’m learning are self-compassion and self-advocacy.

I’m learning to speak up about my needs. To let the people I love know when I’m overwhelmed or overstimulated or about to crash. I’m learning to extend grace to myself when I fall short. I’m learning that I don’t need to earn rest or prove my worth.

This is how I’m wired.

And that wiring — while challenging — has also given me so much.

It’s made me an insightful writer.
A passionate storyteller.
An outside-the-box thinker.
An empathetic listener.
A pattern-seeker who catches things others miss.
A goofball who can make people laugh.
A charismatic performer.
Someone with a lot to offer, even if I don’t always see it in the mirror.

I also recognize my privilege in how I’ve moved through the world. As a white, cis man, some of my traits have been waved away as “quirky” or “absent-minded professor vibes.” Others — particularly women and marginalized folks — are often penalized for the same behaviors I get a pass on. When executive dysfunction leaves my home messy, I might get leniency where a woman might face shame. If I had a public meltdown, I’d likely still be met with understanding, not punishment or police.

So this journey of mine isn’t just about advocating for me. It’s about advocating for all of us.

For our needs to be recognized.
For our struggles to be understood.
And to celebrate what makes us amazing and unique.