recruitingSHEro Unmasked: Neurodiversity, Authenticity, and the Cost of Being Fully Seen

A white mask lays beside an open journal, illuminated by soft light, with a handwritten affirmation declaring self-acceptance. A crescent moon pendant and purple flowers in a vase add to the serene atmosphere.

As Neurodiversity Pride Day (June 16, 2026) approaches, I find myself reflecting less on diagnoses and more on identity. Less on labels and more on understanding.

Over the past several years, I've spoken openly about being autistic and having ADHD. In doing so, I've learned something unexpected: the hardest part of understanding myself wasn't receiving a diagnosis. It was watching how other people responded when I stopped hiding parts of who I was.

This isn't just a story about autism or ADHD.

It's a story about self-discovery. About masking and unmasking. About bias, belonging, and the complicated reality of living authentically in a world that often says it values authenticity until it encounters it in practice.

More than a few times over the years, people who have known me through different chapters of my life have asked me some version of the same question:

"Why do you keep talking about being neurodivergent?"

Sometimes the question is wrapped in concern. Sometimes curiosity. Sometimes discomfort disguised as conversation.

But if I'm honest, those moments rarely feel like conversations.

They feel like someone trying to reconcile the version of me they were comfortable with against the version of me that became harder to categorize once I stopped masking.

A breathtaking spring sunrise illuminates a tree in transformation, its branches showcasing the beauty of nature's cycle with blooms of pink blossoms heralding new beginnings.

I Didn't Suddenly Become Neurodivergent

The thing is: I have always been me.

Every single day of my life, I have been me.

I've gone by different names. I've even had different last names. I've evolved. I've grown. My mindset has changed over time, as it should with gained experiences and knowledge. Growth is part of being human. Self-discovery is not a straight line, at least it hasn't been for me.

But fundamentally, the core of me has always existed. Rachel has always been here. What changed wasn't my existence. What changed was my understanding of myself. And what I've come to learn most importantly... my willingness to stop shrinking that understanding to make other people comfortable.

One thing I want to make very clear: I have not only been open about my neurodivergence for the past three or four years. I've been speaking openly about it for over a decade. The difference is that ADHD has become far more socially palatable than autism. And honestly? I find that deeply disheartening. Because when society decides one form of neurodivergence is acceptable while another is treated as uncomfortable, inconvenient, or unbelievable, that says far more about society than it does about neurodivergent people.

"You Don't Look Autistic"

I've been accused of faking autism.

I've been accused of faking ADHD.

I've been told I'm not autistic at all and that I'm just aging.

I've been told I don't have ADHD and that I'm just lazy.

I've been told that I'm just being difficult to be difficult.

The irony is impossible to ignore: the moment I started learning about and explaining who I actually am, people became uncomfortable. The moment I began the journey to my own authentic self, clunky as it may have been for me, was the moment people around me began to respond with dicomfort and a blatant step back.

Some people think that because they knew me before my diagnoses, those diagnoses cannot possibly be real. But diagnoses do not create neurodivergence. They explain it.

Sunlight streams through open doors, casting warm, golden hues on a hallway on a tranquil spring morning.

The Difference Between Growing and Masking

People often say I've changed.

And they're right.

I have changed.

But not truly in the way people think.

I've changed through growth. Through knowledge. Through healing. Through understanding. Through finally learning myself after decades of feeling fundamentally "off" without knowing why. For a life time of being reminded in subtle and also direct ways that I was different.

For over 30 years, I moved through the world carrying a constant feeling that something wasn't clicking socially. Something felt awkward. Misaligned. Exhausting. I knew nothing different. I didn't know that others didn't feel this way about themselves. I thought I was living the human experience that most people were. I was wrong.

I learned social cues intellectually instead of instinctively.

I learned how to perform normalcy.

I learned how to mask.

And masking is exhausting.

The most exhausting part of being autistic wasn't being autistic.

It was pretending not to be.

I started unmasking in my 30s. But I don't think I fully unmasked until my 40s. And that was the moment everything became clear. Who my people were. Who they weren't. Who could handle authenticity. Who would ask questions, who would walk away and who would I walk away from. And who only liked the masked version of me because she was easier to digest.

A serene Greek morning unfolds as the sun rises over the Aegean Sea, casting golden light through a window and illuminating the charming white buildings with blue domes, while a kitten observes the breathtaking view.

The Gifts I Didn't Recognize

For a long time, I viewed my differences primarily through the lens of struggle. Not because they were "typically" negative, but because they were often reflected back to me that way.

What I didn't understand until much later was that the very things that made me feel different were also the source of many of my greatest strengths.

My brain notices patterns. It connects dots that others sometimes miss. It asks questions. Lots of questions. My brain sees connections before I can always explain them. It notices patterns others walk past. It refuses to stop asking why. It dives deep when something sparks curiosity. It challenges assumptions. It searches for understanding. It looks beneath the surface long after others have moved on.

I feel deeply. Often it's a gift. I notice when people feel excluded. I notice when systems aren't working. I notice inconsistencies, gaps, and opportunities for improvement. I notice the person standing quietly at the edge of the room wondering if they belong because I've spent much of my life wondering the same thing.

My neurodivergence has shaped the way I advocate, the way I build relationships, the way I solve problems, and the way I move through the world. Would I choose a life without challenges? Of course. But would I choose to be someone entirely different? No. Because alongside the confusion, exhaustion, and misunderstanding, there has also been creativity, resilience, curiosity, empathy, innovation, and a perspective that is uniquely my own. And that's worth celebrating too.

Sunlight streams through the window, casting warm shadows across a table set with a cozy cup of orange spice tea and a journal, inviting an afternoon of reflection.

The Hidden Cost of Unmasking

A lot of people say they value authenticity. Far fewer people actually know how to handle it. Some of the hardest losses in my life didn't happen because of dramatic fights or explosive endings.

They happened quietly. People drifted. People became uncomfortable. People pulled away when I stopped being endlessly agreeable. When I started saying no. When I pushed back. When I asked too many questions. When I stopped smoothing every edge of myself down to make other people comfortable.

The truth is, some people are comfortable with neurodivergence only when it remains invisible. When it benefits them. When it's quirky. When it's productive. When it's masked. But the moment it disrupts expectations, communication styles, power dynamics, or emotional comfort, some people begin reacting in ways that feel strangely familiar to autistic people: frustration, withdrawal, discomfort, and defensiveness. Not always loudly. Not always obviously. But it's there.

A collection of vintage mirrors with golden frames elegantly reflects the soft glow of the room, enhancing the warm ambiance.

Bias Lives Everywhere

My journey toward self-discovery was never going to exist in a vacuum. I knew that much. Or I thought I did. We live in a society shaped by bias. Ableism. Sexism. Racism. Social conditioning. Fear of difference. Fear of the unknown.

Neurodivergent or not, I genuinely think a lot of people move through life without fully understanding who they are underneath performance, expectation, identity, or survival.

Maybe that's why authenticity unsettles people so deeply.

Because when someone lives openly, it quietly challenges everyone around them to ask themselves whether they are living honestly too.

A stone path meanders through a vibrant field of wildflowers, leading towards a breathtaking sunrise on the horizon.

Do I Regret Being Open?

No. Not for a second.

Have I lost people? Yes.

Have opportunities potentially disappeared? Probably.

Has being openly autistic and openly ADHD changed the way some people perceive me professionally and personally? Absolutely.

For me, knowing myself is worth more than performative acceptance. Living authentically is worth more than one-sided relationships. Worth more than fake proximity. Worth more than professional accolades built on pretending to be someone else. I spent decades not fully understanding myself. I do now. And that understanding has changed everything.

A cozy, empty chair basks in the warm, natural light streaming through the large window, surrounded by greenery and an elegant bookshelf arrangement.

Ask Questions Before Assumptions

One thing that stands out to me constantly is how few people actually ask questions. People assume. People project. People decide who you are before they ever seek understanding. Because asking questions requires curiosity without ego. It requires listening instead of defending assumptions. It requires recognizing that your perception of someone may not actually reflect their lived reality.

I say this constantly:

Don't hear what I didn't say.

As a neurodivergent person, I often communicate directly and literally. Yet people regularly assign subtext, tone, hidden meaning, or intent that was never there. And that disconnect can become exhausting. But I still believe questions matter. Understanding matters. Curiosity matters. Especially before making judgments about someone you claim to care about.

Because sometimes the most radical thing a person can do is simply say:

"Help me understand your experience."

And then actually listen.

As Neurodiversity Pride Week begins, this isn't a celebration of a diagnosis for me. It's a celebration of self-discovery. For decades, I knew I was different. I just didn't know why I felt that way. Today, I do.

My autism and ADHD aren't flaws to fix, excuses to make, or labels to hide behind. They are part of who I am. They shape how I think, how I solve problems, how I connect dots, how I advocate, and how I move through the world.

Sharing my experiences isn't about seeking permission or understanding from everyone around me. It's about telling the truth of my lived experience. It's about creating space for conversations that challenge assumptions, encourage curiosity, and deepen understanding. And it's about celebrating the person I've always been, even when I didn't fully understand her myself.

I also share because I know there are other neurodivergent people still trying to figure out where they fit in a world that often asks them to be less of who they are. If my story helps even one person feel seen, understood, or a little less alone in that journey, then the discomfort that sometimes comes with living openly has been worth it.

So as Neurodiversity Pride Week begins, I'm choosing pride over shame, authenticity over masking, and self-acceptance over self-doubt.

This is my neurodiversity.

This is my story.

And after a lifetime of trying to fit into spaces that weren't built for minds like mine, I'm finally celebrating the fact that I was never the problem.

And I know I'm not the only one.

If you've spent years wondering whether you were too much, too sensitive, too intense, too different, or simply not enough, I hope one day you discover what I did:

You were never the problem either.

Neurodiversity Pride Week is June 11th through June 17th.