There are people walking through this world every single day carrying the exhaustion of constantly monitoring themselves.
Monitoring how they speak.
How they move.
How they laugh.
How long they make eye contact.
How much emotion they show.
Whether they stim in public.
Whether they sound “too gay.”
Whether they seem “too autistic.”
Whether they appear “normal enough” to avoid judgment.
And after a while, that level of self-awareness stops feeling like choice and starts feeling like survival.
I think one of the hardest truths to sit with is realizing how many people learned early in life that acceptance often came with conditions.
You can be here… but tone yourself down.
You can be included… but don’t make people uncomfortable.
You can belong… but only if you are easier to understand, easier to explain, easier to digest.
For many disabled LGBTQ+ individuals, masking does not happen in just one direction. It can happen on multiple levels at the same time.
There are autistic individuals forcing eye contact because they were taught their natural communication style was “wrong.”
There are individuals suppressing stimming because they learned early that visible disability made other people uncomfortable.
There are people changing the way they walk, speak, dress, or express themselves because they are trying to avoid attention.
There are people lowering their voices, deepening their voices, softening their mannerisms, rehearsing social interactions, studying body language, scripting conversations, and carrying the constant awareness that the world is watching.
Not always because someone explicitly told them to hide.
Sometimes because society teaches it quietly.
Through looks.
Through exclusion.
Through comments disguised as jokes.
Through the relief people show when someone appears “normal enough.”
And honestly, I do not think enough people understand how exhausting it is to constantly evaluate whether your authentic self is acceptable in a particular environment.
That kind of exhaustion settles deep into the body.
It becomes second nature.
Many people become so skilled at masking that others never realize how much effort is happening beneath the surface.
That is the part people often miss.
Masking is not always obvious.
Sometimes the most exhausted people in the room are the ones everyone describes as “doing great.”
Because they have spent years mastering the art of self-monitoring.
Years learning how to survive socially.
Years trying to predict what version of themselves will feel safest in different spaces.
And when someone is both disabled and LGBTQ+, those calculations can multiply quickly.
Will this doctor take me seriously?
Will this school support me?
Will this workplace feel safe?
Will this environment accept my disability but reject my identity?
Will this space affirm my identity but ignore accessibility?
Will I have to choose which part of myself feels safest to reveal?
That last one stays with me.
Because nobody should feel forced to separate themselves into pieces just to survive different environments.
Yet so many people do.
There are disabled individuals who feel welcomed in disability spaces until conversations around LGBTQ+ identity begin.
There are LGBTQ+ individuals who enter community spaces only to discover they are inaccessible, overstimulating, or dismissive of disability needs.
There are people constantly scanning rooms and environments trying to determine whether they can safely exist as their full selves.
And I think many people underestimate how emotionally heavy that becomes over time.
The hypervigilance.
The self-editing.
The rehearsing.
The shrinking.
The pressure to constantly calculate whether your authenticity will cost you connection, safety, employment, relationships, healthcare, housing, or community.
Some people have spent so long masking that they no longer fully know who they are underneath it.
That is the heartbreaking part.
Because masking often starts as protection.
Especially for disabled individuals.
Especially for LGBTQ+ individuals.
Especially for anyone who has learned that being visibly different can come with consequences.
Children notice very early what gets rewarded and what gets corrected.
They notice which behaviors make adults smile.
They notice which traits cause concern.
They notice when people praise them for appearing more “typical.”
They notice when hiding parts of themselves creates less tension in a room.
And over time, many people begin shaping themselves around what feels safest rather than what feels authentic.
I think about this often in the context of autism.
So many autistic individuals grow up receiving the message that success means appearing less autistic.
Sit still.
Stop stimming.
Make eye contact.
Lower your voice.
Act your age.
Do not interrupt.
Smile more.
Blend in.
And while some social skills may absolutely help individuals navigate the world, we also have to ask ourselves difficult questions.
At what point does support become performance?
At what point are we teaching survival rather than acceptance?
At what point are we unintentionally communicating that someone’s natural way of existing is only acceptable if it becomes less visible?
Those are uncomfortable questions.
But important ones.
And honestly, I think many adults are carrying wounds from years of trying to earn belonging by becoming more acceptable to other people.
Not more authentic.
More acceptable.
There is a difference.
Because authenticity allows people to exhale.
Performance does not.
Performance requires constant maintenance.
And the thing about masking is that many people become incredibly good at it while simultaneously becoming deeply exhausted by it.
That exhaustion can look like burnout.
Withdrawal.
Anxiety.
Depression.
Isolation.
Chronic stress.
Feeling emotionally disconnected from yourself.
Feeling like nobody actually knows the real you.
Feeling loved for the version of yourself you created to survive.
That is a painful reality for many people.
And I think this conversation matters because inclusion is often discussed in very surface-level ways.
People love words like inclusion, diversity, acceptance, belonging.
But true inclusion asks more from us than slogans.
It asks us to examine what kinds of people are actually allowed to exist comfortably in our spaces.
Not tolerated.
Comfortably exist.
There is a difference between inviting someone into a space and creating a space where they no longer feel pressured to hide.
That difference matters.
A lot.
Because accessibility is not just physical.
Accessibility is emotional too.
Can someone communicate in the way that works for them?
Can someone stim without being judged?
Can someone disclose disability without fear?
Can someone express identity safely?
Can someone exist without constantly monitoring how they are perceived?
Can someone take up space without feeling like they are “too much?”
Those questions matter.
And I think many people reading this may quietly recognize themselves somewhere in these words, even if they have never used the term masking before.
Because masking is not limited to autism.
Many people mask.
People with chronic illness mask pain.
People with anxiety mask overwhelm.
People mask grief.
People mask identity.
People mask sensory overload.
People mask trauma.
People mask exhaustion.
People learn very quickly which emotions and identities the world considers acceptable.
And then many spend years trying to fit themselves inside those boundaries.
But eventually, constantly shrinking yourself catches up with you.
Eventually the body notices.
Eventually the nervous system notices.
Eventually the exhaustion becomes impossible to ignore.
I think that is why conversations around authenticity feel so emotional for many people.
Because deep down, most people want the same thing.
To feel safe being fully themselves.
Not a filtered version.
Not a socially acceptable version.
Not the version least likely to make others uncomfortable.
The real version.
And honestly, I think that is where true inclusion begins.
Not with performative statements.
Not with awareness graphics.
Not with buzzwords.
But with creating environments where people no longer feel pressured to disappear parts of themselves in order to belong.
That kind of inclusion changes people.
Because there is something deeply healing about being in spaces where your nervous system no longer feels like it has to stay on guard.
Where you are not constantly calculating.
Where you can finally exhale.
Where existing does not feel like performance.
And maybe that is the deeper question all of us should sit with.
Who around us still feels like they have to earn safety by hiding pieces of themselves?
Who has learned to survive by becoming smaller?
Who has spent years trying to be “less” in order to feel accepted?
And what would happen if the spaces we created finally allowed people to stop performing and simply exist?
Because everyone deserves that.
Not just some people.
Not just people who are easy to understand.
Not just people who fit neatly inside society’s expectations.
Everyone.
Until next time… keep making space for everyone.