I don’t know who I am when I’m not masking

There’s a version of me that smiles in social settings.
That makes eye contact.
That nods at the right time, laughs at the right jokes, mimics the energy in the room.
That keeps it together — even when everything inside feels loud, foggy, or exhausted.

That version of me is good at masking.

Masking is what happens when your nervous system is screaming but you’ve learned how to hide it.
It’s the practiced script, the filtered expressions, the tiny social calculations you don’t even know you’re doing until you crash.
It’s trying to sound normal when you don’t feel okay.
It’s pretending the light isn’t too bright, the room isn’t too noisy, the conversation isn’t draining every bit of your energy.

And for a long time, I didn’t even know I was doing it.
I just thought I was being “good.”
Socially appropriate. High functioning.
I didn’t understand that I was performing — not just surviving.

Because when you grow up neurodivergent in a neurotypical world, masking becomes your default mode.
You do it to be liked. To stay safe. To fit in.
And it works — until it doesn’t.

The truth is: masking works until you forget who you are underneath it.

When I’m alone, I sometimes feel… blank.
Like I’m waiting for someone to mirror before I know how to exist.
Like I’ve lost the connection to the unfiltered, unmasked version of myself.

I know what other people expect me to be.
But who am I when no one is watching?

That question — Who am I beneath the mask? — still scares me sometimes.
Because unmasking isn’t a single brave moment.
It’s a slow, tender unraveling.
A gentle remembering.

It’s learning to tolerate the quiet after the noise.
The stillness after the performance.
The discomfort of being seen without a script.

If you’ve spent most of your life masking,
this is your reminder: you were never supposed to perform to be loved.
You don’t have to be “on” to be worthy.
You don’t need to earn rest, softness, or belonging.

You were always enough. Even underneath the mask.