3 Truths About Masking You Might Not See at First
Many people with ADHD or dyslexia are practiced at tuning in deeply during first impressions. It’s part of how they’ve learned to navigate the world. Hyperfocus can feel like intense intimacy. But it isn’t always sustainable.
— Calla Hart
When you’re in a relationship with someone who is neurodivergent—whether they have ADHD, dyslexia, autism, or a combination—you may not see the full picture right away. In fact, the very beginning might feel easier than expected. Clear. Attuned. Even magical.
That’s part of what makes it so confusing later on.
Because many neurodivergent individuals—especially those who’ve had to adapt to neurotypical spaces their whole lives—develop a survival strategy known as masking.
Masking isn’t manipulation.
It’s protection.
It’s performance.
It’s trying to belong, be loved, and be safe—all at once.
Here are three truths about masking I didn’t see at first—but wish I had.
1. The attentiveness you feel at the start may not last—and it’s not personal.
In the beginning, my partner showed up fully. Present. Engaged. Asking questions. Listening closely. It felt like being truly seen. And it wasn’t fake—it was real. But it was also effortful.
Many people with ADHD or dyslexia are practiced at tuning in deeply during first impressions. It’s part of how they’ve learned to navigate the world. Hyperfocus can feel like intense intimacy. But it isn’t always sustainable.
When that early intensity faded, I took it as rejection. I wondered what I’d done wrong. But the shift wasn’t about me—it was about how much energy masking takes over time.
2. The emotional inconsistency isn’t a flaw—it’s fatigue.
Over time, the cracks started to show. Missed conversations. Unpredictable reactions. Confusing shutdowns. It felt like the person I first met was disappearing.
What I didn’t realize was that masking creates emotional exhaustion. Holding it all together—socially, verbally, emotionally—can drain someone to the point where they literally have nothing left to give.
And because masking often involves mirroring others, it becomes harder and harder to access your authentic self beneath the performance. What looks like withdrawal might actually be survival mode.
3. Unmasking can feel like loss—but it’s actually the beginning.
When the mask starts to fall, it can feel like the relationship is unraveling. You might grieve the version of your partner you first knew. But that unveiling—however awkward, messy, or painful—isn’t an ending. It’s a beginning.
It’s where the real work starts. Where real understanding can grow. Where you start learning a shared language not built on assumptions, but on truth.
It’s not easy. But it’s more real than anything that came before.
Masking is not deceit. It’s effort. It’s survival. It’s a way of reaching for connection with tools that aren’t always built for depth.
If you’ve seen this in your relationship—or felt it yourself—you’re not alone.
