Masking Fatigue: When Even Your Personality Needs a Nap

I’ve been so tired this week. Not the kind of tired a good night’s sleep fixes, but the kind that seeps into your bones, the kind you feel in every hair follicle. The kind that lingers even when the checklist is done.

Admittedly, some of it’s just poor sleep; I’ve always struggled with that. But some of it is the exhaustion of managing too many versions of myself at once.

The professional version. The parenting version. The caretaker version. The “please don’t stim too loudly in this meeting” version. The “don’t cry at work, you’re fine” version.

That’s masking fatigue: the slow, quiet drain of performing stability while everything inside you hums at full volume.

The Performance of Functioning

People think of masking as something autistic people do, and they’re right, but it shows up in other neurodivergent lives too. 

I have ADHD.  I have  anxiety. I’m introverted. I stim. I’m expressive. I can go from laser-focused to completely out of words in an hour. I’ve learned to manage that, to translate myself. To hold my vocal stims in my throat when I’m around people who wouldn’t understand. To temper my enthusiasm so I don’t seem “too much.” To smile and nod through small talk when my brain is begging for quiet.

Lately, that act has felt heavier.

Part of it is my season of life. I’m navigating a life that requires my focus. I'm perimenopausal,  I’m raising a creative, dynamic, and dramatic daughter, and trying to care for my aging parents. However, the reality is, what's feeling heavier isn’t new, it is the role I have always played.

I'm the reliable one, the knowledgeable one,  the tech-savvy one, the level-headed one. And I’m good at it — which is exactly what makes it hard.

Competence can become its own kind of camouflage. When you look capable, no one thinks to ask if you’re okay. And if they did, I’m not sure I could keep the mask from cracking into a million pieces. And when that competence gets questioned (like the recent gender bias incident at work, where I had to defend the very skills I pride myself on) the mask doesn’t just crack, it shatters. Because I realize how much energy I’ve spent earning credibility that should have been a given.

The Quiet Cost of Containment

Masking isn’t always about pretending to be someone else. Sometimes it’s just trying to be less of yourself so others are comfortable. I catch myself swallowing words, jokes, stims, even sighs. Not because anyone told me to stop, but because decades of subtle messages trained me to believe I should. That “professional” means pleasant, polished, small.

As soon as I get into my car at the end of the day, when I am alone, I  hum. I sway. I talk to myself. I process out loud. Those things aren’t quirks; they’re how my brain releases pressure. But when I’m out in the world, I pack them away, like a cozy coat I’ll put back on when I get home.

Even silence doesn’t always feel quiet when your brain never stops performing.

When Competence Becomes a Mask

There’s a cruel irony in how success can reinforce the very habits that burn us out. I’ve spent years being the dependable one, the person who gets it done, knows the system, stays calm under pressure. And I am proud of that. I often joke that I am everyone’s “phone friend” friend.  But somewhere along the way, competence became not just my camouflage, but my curse, that reinforces the habit that drains my energy. 

I know I’m not alone in this. Many of us , especially people of color, women, femmes, and anyone whose identities doesn’t fit neatly into power’s expectations, walk that tightrope: be confident, but not intimidating. Skilled, but not boastful. Firm, but not “abrasive.” It’s an impossible performance, one that drains every ounce of emotional bandwidth. Being “good at everything” can become its own kind of invisibility cloak, a form of self erasure. You start to wonder if people see you at all, or just the version that makes everything easier for them.

Unmasking as an Act of Care

I used to think unmasking was about making bold statements — some kind of dramatic refusal. But I’ve learned it can also be quieter.

Sometimes, unmasking is saying no without an apology.

Sometimes, it’s stimming openly in front of your kid because you want them to know it’s okay to be unfiltered.

Sometimes, it’s not fixing the problem right away, or admitting that you don’t have the energy to.

For me, unmasking looks like logging off early. Closing my door for ten minutes. Letting my mom see that I’m tired instead of pretending to be endlessly capable. Dropping the mask isn’t weakness. It’s trust. It’s saying, “I’m safe enough to stop performing.”

And maybe that’s the truest act of care. For others, and for myself.

The Soft Rebellion of Rest

My personality doesn’t need a rebrand. It needs rest.

I’m learning that it’s okay to be quieter right now, softer, slower, unfinished. That I don’t have to hold every version of myself at once.

The truth is, I don’t want to be impressive right now.

I want to be real.  

And maybe that’s the quiet revolution: to stop performing wellness, and start living it.