Let me tell you something I wish someone had told me years ago:
Most people don’t realize you’re masking.
They don’t see you holding your breath through conversations.
They don’t notice how hard you’re working to look “like you belong.”
They don’t know what it’s costing you to seem “worth” it.
They see the version of you that makes them comfortable.
And sometimes? They love that version.
They reward that version.
They call it being chill, a “good sport”, never complains.
But that version isn’t the whole story. Not even close.
Because every time you “get along”, give another polite nod, or pretend to fake understanding, there’s a person quietly disappearing to survive being social.
This article isn’t here to shame you for that.
It’s here to name it.
So you can stop wondering if you’re just “too sensitive” or worse, “not good enough.”
So you can start to see that your exhaustion isn’t weakness—it’s a consequence of hiding.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll give yourself permission to take the damn mask off.
Let me show you what masking really looks like.
And what it steals—from both sides.
Social Stuff
I force my eyes to meet theirs even when it feels like staring into a floodlight, because I’ve learned people trust you more when you burn your retinas for their comfort—and while I’m busy pretending to connect, I disappear from my own body.
I mimic their smile, their laugh, the way they tilt their head—like I’m auditioning for the part of a “real person”—and they never notice the chameleon in front of them is starving for someone who sees me.
I swallow the need to tap, rock, fidget, move—because God forbid I look “weird”—and the anxiety builds like pressure in a pipe while the world applauds how “calm” I seem.
I laugh at jokes that don’t land because it’s easier to fake it than risk the shame of being the only one not in on it—and every time I do, I trade curiosity for camouflage.
I rehearse my lines before I speak so I don’t screw it up, and by the time I open my mouth, I’m already miles away from the moment that could’ve been real.
Feelings
I shrink my sadness, straighten my spine, and make my voice nice so no one accuses me of being “too much”—but inside, I’m screaming into a soundproof room, hoping someone notices the echo.
I smile through sensory hell, nod through chaos, pretend I’m fine while my skin feels like it’s being sandpapered from the inside—and they call me “strong” because they’ve never seen the crash.
I slap on a calm face while my nervous system is rioting behind my ribs—because experience taught me people run from discomfort, and I’d rather fracture quietly than be left again.
Brain Stuff
I plan and prep and polish everything within an inch of its life so no one sees the raw chaos underneath—and when they praise how organized I am, they’re applauding the cage I built to survive.
I nod when I’m lost because stopping the train feels worse than missing the destination—and in doing so, I let the gap between me and understanding grow wider, silently.
I hold it together until I snap in private, because I’ve made it everyone else’s job to feel comfortable around me, and no one knows they’re watching the edited version of someone drowning.
Sensory Stuff
I wear clothes that feel like sandpaper and fiberglass just to avoid looking “difficult”—and every step I take rubs away a bit more of my sanity while they complement my outfit.
I stay in places that feel like a warzone to my senses, laughing and sipping drinks while my brain begs for mercy—and later, when I disappear, they say I “vanish a lot.”
I eat food that triggers my gag reflex just to seem agreeable, chewing betrayal bite by bite while the people around me talk about how “easygoing” I am.
Who I Am
I keep my weird, joyful obsessions locked away like secrets, because the world made it clear my passion is “too much”—so they never see me light up, only dim down.
I water myself down until I’m tasteless, because I’ve been told that being full-flavored makes people uncomfortable—and every time I do, I become harder for even me to recognize.
I shift and mold and contort depending on who’s in the room, trying to stay wanted—and when I leave, I feel like a ghost with no fingerprints.
I pretend I’m not bothered when something cuts deep, because vulnerability has too often been used against me—and while I’m bleeding silently, they go on thinking everything’s fine.
Work & School
I push myself past every limit to keep up appearances, and people call me “a high achiever” without realizing I’m coughing up my sanity behind the scenes.
I copy how everyone else gets things done, even when it breaks my brain, because admitting my way is different feels like putting a target on my back—and they never see how capable I could be if I were allowed to do it my way.
I obsess over every word of an email like it’s a loaded weapon, because the wrong tone could undo everything—and they wonder why I take so long to respond.
I say yes with a tight smile while my body screams no, because being liked feels safer than being honest—and what they get is compliance, not consent.
Relationships
I shape myself into what they need so I won’t be left, and every time I do, I bury another piece of what I need—and they love me, but not the real me.
I let my boundaries blur because rejection stings more than being drained—and the more I disappear to stay connected, the lonelier I become.
I’ve stayed in toxic relationships longer than I should’ve, because the idea of no one else ever understanding me felt like a death sentence—and in doing so, I locked the best parts of myself in a cage.
I take care of everyone else until I’m bone dry, because asking for care feels like a trap—and while they bask in my reliability, I wither quietly in the corner.
The bottom line:
If you saw yourself in these words…
If your nervous system whispered, "Finally, someone said it"—
Then this isn’t just a list. It’s a mirror.
Masking isn’t fake.
It’s protective.
It’s adaptive.
It’s how a brilliant, sensitive brain tried to stay safe in a world that kept handing it shame.
But here's the thing:
That world doesn’t get to decide who you are.
Every time you let a little more of the real you through—
The unfiltered laugh.
The quiet no.
The unapologetic interest.
The stim you don’t suppress.
The boundary you hold.
You reclaim a piece of yourself that masking tried to silence.
And when you do that, something beautiful happens:
The people who stay?
They stay for you.
Not the polished version.
Not the masked one.
You.
So if you’re tired of disappearing, come back.
Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s messy.
Come back to your voice, your rhythm, your joy, your fire.
Start where it’s safe.
Start with someone who gets it.
Start with a breath.
But start.
Because we don’t need another well-behaved ghost.
We need you—unmasked, untamed, unforgettable.
Thanks for being you,
Brian
P.S. Ready to begin the process of unmasking — DM me here and let me know