High-Performing and Quietly Falling Apart
"I can't do this anymore." If you've ever had that thought, read this—on burnout, masking, and my late AuDHD diagnosis
Content note: This piece mentions suicidal ideation and burnout. If that's a hard place for you right now, take care of yourself—come back when it's right, or skip completely
There were mornings when I woke up & wish I hadn’t.
My dog was the only reason I got up, and is why I’m still here today. There were countless mornings when my first waking thought was, “I can’t do this anymore”. It was accompanied by dread, anxiety and crying. The thought was on repeat—as I drove to the office, arranged my facial expressions to look “more friendly”, made small talk with coworkers, and went through all the actions that made me a “high performer” at my job.
I thought this was just being an adult
For a long time I thought this feeling was what being an adult and having a career felt like. That everybody woke up exhausted and ran an analysis on the day ahead — scripting interactions, going through checklists to function and be seen as “normal”.
I felt like a robot pretending to be human. Things other people seemed to be fine with and did automatically were things I had to create internal systems for. I told myself I just needed to try harder. That I was just lazy, or too sensitive. Turns out I was high-masking, and had been for the last 30+ years of my life.
High-masking is the most effective camouflage
I think some of you can relate to this.
Nobody knows you’re struggling, because being good at your job while quietly falling apart is the most effective camouflage there is. Nobody checks on the woman who delivers, who’s regarded as a “high performer.” They see competent. “Put together.” Meanwhile you run on panic, self-doubt, and exhaustion.
After work hours was for recovery
I’d come home and collapse on the couch with my dog. Some days I might berate myself enough to drag myself to the gym. But towards the height of my burnout, the couch and my dog was the only interaction I had the bandwidth for.
I lost most weekends to recovery. Saturday was for being horizontal, and Sunday was for the dread. But on the surface, by every measurable metric, I was thriving — promotions, financially successful, a house, a good job, the actual words “high performer” in documents with my name at the top. And I felt like an imposter.
The “aha moment”
I remember the exact “aha moment” that made me question everything. A friend mentioned she’d been assessed for ADHD and started describing her brain, and I got this, “omg, is that what it is?!” vertigo of hearing my own inside-voice come out of her mouth.
So I did what we all do. I went down the internet rabbit hole at 2 AM. I took the unofficial quizzes. I watched video after video of people explaining the exact internal processing I’d assumed was just my “flaws”.
I’d built an entire personality out of masking, and then spent years wondering why I was so tired
The autism piece came later, and slower — because I “didn’t look autistic.” I was “too pretty to be autistic.” I made eye contact. I had friends. I had a history of accomplishments, degrees and a corporate career.
It took a good assessor to point out that I ran my life on coping mechanisms and exhaustion. That I’d built an entire personality out of masking, and then spent years wondering why I was so tired.
The diagnosis reframed the problem
For 30+ years, I thought the problem was me.
My laziness, dressed up as elaborate productivity systems.
My weakness, dressed up as being an introvert and needing the whole weekend to recover from a normal week.
My inability to just do the thing everyone else seemed to do without a second thought.
After the diagnosis, I realized the problem was that my brain was built one way, and I was in a world built for another. I’d spent years white-knuckling the gap and calling it “being an adult with a career”.
Post-diagnosis
The diagnosis helped me understand my brain, and how I could design a life — during and after office hours — that actually works for me. I’m still at my job. I still have hard mornings. But I no longer wake up and see the hard morning as proof that I’m a flawed person. Now it’s just my nervous system filing a complaint.
I still get up for my dog, but somewhere along the way it stopped being only for him. I won’t oversell that. Some mornings it’s still 70% dog. But the other 30% is mine, and it’s because I finally stopped shaming myself and understand what my brain and nervous system needs.
Whatever your version of my dog is, it counts. If this article resonates with you, you’re not alone. We exist in a world that wasn’t built for our brains. But life doesn’t always have to feel bad, and at some point, it can get better.
So what’s next?
In the upcoming weeks, I’ll write about how I moved from burnout to better — how I navigated HR, work accommodations and medical leave. Subscribe to be notified when the articles publish, and get a free checklist for requesting accommodations.
Note: This is my personal experience, not medical advice. If you recognize yourself in it, consider talking to a clinician who can help you figure out what you're dealing with and what support fits. And if you're struggling right now: in the US, you can call or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline—free, confidential, and available 24/7.