What is Masking?
If you’re living with mental health challenges, you’ve probably heard the term before. Maybe you’ve seen that medication commercial, the one where a woman is out in public holding up a smiley-face mask while looking anything but happy. That’s a simple, visual example of masking. A quick search defines masking as “the act of concealing one’s true emotions, behaviors, or personality traits to fit in or meet societal expectations.”

We’re Taught early

From infancy, we’re taught to behave in specific ways depending on where we are. You learn when to speak, when to stay quiet, what you’re allowed to touch, and what’s off-limits. We’re molded to fit societal norms: to be productive people who don’t disrupt the status quo. For some, this happens naturally. It’s second nature. But for others, those living with ADHD, autism, depression, or other conditions, being around people takes work. Real effort.

My Story was masking became survival tool

In a previous blog, I shared about losing my dad. His death had a ripple effect on so many people. For some, their grief was visible. Others? You wouldn’t have known. I remember talking to my mom about my mental health, and she said, “I’ve just never had to worry about you.” I answered without thinking, “Yeah, that’s called masking.”

Looking back, I realize I started masking early. I was an honor roll student. I didn’t get in trouble. I stayed away from drugs and alcohol. I was called “mature for my age” constantly. That attitude followed me into adult life, into jobs, friendships, and responsibilities.

I only saw the “obvious” path laid out by society and did everything I could to follow it. Meet the milestones. Do the work. Check the boxes. I didn’t necessarily want to lead, but I often found myself in leadership roles. I organized friend outings, trained new employees, and kept moving. At work, I was praised for being positive.

When the Mask Breaks

Here’s the catch: eventually, you run out of steam. Maybe it’s a traumatic event, or maybe it’s just time. Either way, your mind and body stop cooperating.

In 2018, I lost my best friend unexpectedly. Three months into that grief, I got sick. Really sick. It wasn’t one single event that broke me, but that loss pushed me over the edge. I was convinced something was physically wrong. I felt exhausted constantly. My heart raced even when sitting still. My body tingled. Breathing was hard. There was pressure on my chest. I missed work and could barely function. It was a nightmare.

I’m incredibly lucky I had doctors who took me seriously. After ER visits, follow-ups, and testing, everything came back normal. That was my first full-body experience with anxiety and depression. It wasn’t situational anxiety anymore, it was life-altering. My brain and body refused to let me continue pretending. I couldn’t meet even the basic expectations of daily life.

The Long Road Back

It’s taken years to start understanding what I need. Even now, I don’t have a perfect system. I’ve had relapses, low points, and times when my body just shuts down. Showering? Not happening. Laundry? Forget it. Even hobbies I love suddenly feel impossible. That’s what burnout and executive dysfunction can look like. My brain and body stop communicating. I want to function, but physically, I just don’t.

It’s frustrating. Especially when you’ve always been seen as an overachiever. To others, you look lazy, but it couldn’t be further from the truth.

My Toolbox

This year, though, I’ve started putting together an actual toolbox. I’ve learned to cope, really cope. I’m giving grace to myself and others. I’m communicating with my therapist, psychiatrist, and doctor when my medication needs to change. I spent five years on just Lexapro before realizing it wasn’t enough. Adjusting prescriptions, changing dosages, and even adding medications has helped.

Yes, I still carry an emergency dose. There’s no shame in needing that kind of help.

Another tool? My routines. They calm me. They help me feel in control. My therapist calls me “particular.” I say I have OCD tendencies, though not a formal diagnosis.

Spoon Therapy

One of my newest favorite tools is Spoon Theory. It’s a simple but powerful metaphor: every day, you wake up with a certain number of “spoons.” Every task costs a spoon or more. Some days you have more spoons, some less. When they’re gone, they’re gone. You might use them all on necessary tasks and have none left for fun. On rare days, you have enough for everything or maybe just joy. It helps prioritize, set boundaries, and protect energy.

The Takeaway

As I said at the beginning, this is a personal journey. Your illness, your coping tools, they may not look like mine. You might learn from a variety of sources and piece together what works for you. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned above all, it’s this:

Communicate. Check in with yourself. Is masking using up all your spoons?
Talk to your loved ones. On rough days, I tell my boyfriend up front: “I just need to be a blob tonight.”
And talk to your care team. You know your body. You know what’s working and what’s not.

Just because you need to adjust how you do things or need extra help to get through the day, that doesn’t make you less of a person.