Hiding in Plain Sight: My Life with ADHD Masking

I’ve spent most of my life wearing an invisible costume, one carefully crafted to blend in, to seem “normal,” to hide the whirlwind of my ADHD brain. When I was diagnosed with ADHD, I finally had a name for the chaos inside me, but I also realized how much energy I’d been pouring into masking—pretending I’m not struggling, covering up my quirks, and trying to meet the world’s expectations. Masking isn’t about lying; it’s about survival in a world that doesn’t always understand how my brain works. Writing this blog post feels raw because it’s like peeling back that costume to show you the real me. Here’s what ADHD masking feels like for me and the real-life challenges it brings.

What Is ADHD Masking?

For me, masking is like playing a role in a play where I’m the only one who doesn’t know the script. It’s the conscious and unconscious ways I hide my ADHD symptoms—whether it’s my inattention, hyperactivity, impulsivity, or all of the above—to fit in and avoid judgment. ADHD is a neurodevelopmental condition with three presentations (inattentive, hyperactive-impulsive, and combined), but masking isn’t tied to one type; it’s something many of us with ADHD do to navigate a world that values focus, calm, and predictability.

Masking looks like forcing myself to sit still when my body wants to fidget, memorizing social cues to avoid blurting out thoughts, or spending hours perfecting a task to hide how hard it was to focus. It’s a performance I put on to seem organized, attentive, or “put together,” even when I’m paddling furiously beneath the surface. But that performance comes at a cost, and it’s one I’m still learning to measure.

The Real-Life Struggles

Let’s get into what masking looks like in my daily life. At work, I’m the queen of overcompensating. I’ll stay late to triple-check my work, not because I’m a perfectionist, but because I’m terrified someone will notice I missed a detail or got distracted. I nod along in meetings, scribbling notes to look engaged, even when my brain is wandering or I’m fighting the urge to fidget with my pen. I’ve mastered the art of smiling through overwhelm, but inside, I’m exhausted from pretending I’ve got it all under control.

Socially, masking is a full-time job. I’ve learned to mimic “appropriate” behaviour—making eye contact, waiting my turn to speak, laughing at the right moments—even when it feels unnatural. I rehearse conversations in my head to avoid blurting out something impulsive or zoning out mid-chat. But it’s like walking a tightrope; one slip, like interrupting or forgetting a friend’s story, and I’m convinced they’ll think I don’t care. I’ve spent years apologizing for being “too much” or “spacey,” when really, I’m just trying to keep my ADHD under wraps.

Daily life is a minefield of small masks. I set multiple alarms to hide how often I forget appointments. I keep my desk spotless to disguise the chaos of my thoughts. I’ll spend hours crafting a “simple” email because I’m scared of seeming scattered if it’s not perfect. Even at home, I mask around family, pretending I’m fine when I’m overwhelmed, because I don’t want to burden them with my struggles.

The hardest part? Masking doesn’t just hide my ADHD—it hides me. I’ve spent so long trying to be what others expect that I sometimes lose sight of who I am. I’ll catch myself suppressing a goofy impulse or swallowing a question because I’m afraid it’ll make me seem “weird.” It’s like I’m constantly editing myself in real-time, and it’s draining.

The Emotional Toll

Masking takes a toll that’s hard to put into words. The biggest cost is exhaustion. Pretending to be focused, calm, and organized all day feels like running a marathon with a smile plastered on my face. By the time I get home, I’m so mentally drained that I crash—sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally. It’s called “ADHD burnout,” and it’s real. I’ll spend hours zoning out or crying over something small because I’ve used up all my energy keeping up the act.

There’s also the loneliness. Masking means hiding parts of myself, so even when I’m surrounded by people, I often feel like nobody really knows me. I’m scared to let the mask slip because I’ve faced judgment before—teachers who called me lazy, friends who didn’t understand why I flaked, bosses who thought I wasn’t trying hard enough. The fear of being “found out” as someone who’s struggling is constant, and it makes it hard to be vulnerable.

The worst part is the self-doubt. I’ve internalized the idea that my ADHD traits are flaws, so I mask to prove I’m “good enough.” But that means I’m always questioning myself: Am I faking it? Am I just lazy? Will people like me if they see the real me? The mental gymnastics of masking leave me feeling like an imposter in my own life.

Finding Ways to Cope

Masking is a coping mechanism, but it’s not sustainable, and I’m learning to ease up on it. One of the biggest steps has been finding safe spaces—friends, family, or support groups—where I can let the mask slip without fear of judgment. Sharing my diagnosis with a few trusted people has been a game-changer; their acceptance helps me accept myself.

I’m also working on small ways to unmask. I let myself fidget in meetings with a discreet stress ball instead of forcing stillness. I’m honest when I miss something in a conversation, saying, “Sorry, my brain wandered—can you repeat that?” instead of pretending I heard. These moments feel risky, but they’re also freeing, like taking off a heavy coat.

Therapy and ADHD coaching have helped me understand why I mask and how to set boundaries. I’m learning to prioritize my energy, saying no to things that drain me and yes to things that let me be myself. And I’m trying to embrace my ADHD traits—the creativity, the passion, the quirks—instead of hiding them. It’s a work in progress, but every step toward authenticity feels like a victory.

The Bottom Line

ADHD masking is like living in a costume that’s too tight, worn to hide a brain that dances to its own beat. It’s exhausting, isolating, and sometimes heart breaking, but it’s also a testament to my resilience. If you’re reading this and relate, know that you don’t have to hide forever. Your ADHD is part of you, not something to be ashamed of. I’m still learning to take off the mask, but every time I do, I feel a little more like me—and that’s worth it.