“I had no idea you have ADHD!”

It’s a common reaction when people learn of my diagnosis.

As a child, I didn’t exhibit the usual symptoms.

I wasn’t hyperactive.

I did well enough in school that I didn’t draw any attention.

I was labeled “bright.”

That’s probably why it took 36 years to finally arrive at a diagnosis.

To be honest, going that long without a diagnosis feels like an achievement.

For 36 years, I effectively veiled my symptoms. I compensated for my shortcomings, learned how to act so I didn’t arouse suspicion, and made the rest of it up on the fly.

I got really good at masking.

For a lot of people with ADHD, masking is an essential part of life. It’s a way to conceal the frenetic, chaotic, and disorganized way our brains work. It disguises impulsive, erratic, or sensory seeking behavior, so we appear in control. It helps us fit in because standing out isn’t encouraged.

I started masking early.

Even as a child I had a nagging feeling that something was different—my brain was operating on a different wavelength from the people around me. I struggled to fit in with my peers and I didn’t make friends easily. I was insecure and hyper-aware of what people thought of me. My behavior evolved to meet others’ expectations in an attempt to earn their approval.

My primary strategy was to make people laugh. If I was the funny guy, people wouldn’t look deeper and see the struggles just underneath the surface. I would crack jokes in class, do bits—anything to distract from the vulnerability concealed inside.

Masking became my default.

Only after diagnosis—and learning about ADHD—did I being to recognize how much I was hiding behind different masks, each one serving a different purpose, intended for different situations or different people.

When I became a dad, I put on a new mask.

Before I had kids I was convinced I was going to be great at fatherhood. I’d watch friends with their kids and take mental notes on all the ways I felt they could do better. It was easy to be on the outside looking in. If they made mistakes or stumbled, I was quick to judge.

“That won’t be me”, I thought. I was going to be perfect.

Well, I haven’t been perfect. But I have worked tirelessly to keep up the act. I regularly have family members commend me on what a great job I’m doing, and how I’m such an engaged, attentive dad. What they don’t realize is, I’m on my best behavior and trying to hold it all together because I don’t want to disappoint anyone.

In reality, fatherhood has been a white-knuckle thrill ride and, at times, I’m barely hanging on.

When the mask does fall, and my family sees the real struggle that I’ve been hiding underneath, it’s shocking. My frustrations and stress build up to a point where I can’t hold it all together, and I snap. The expressions of those witnessing my meltdown punctuates how effectively I’ve worn a mask. They suddenly realize I’ve been working overtime to appear like everything is great. When the veil comes crashing down, it’s a shocking surprise.

Always hiding behind a mask means I’ve lost myself along the way.

The constant pressure to fit in, to perform, has eroded my ability to be authentically and unapologetically me.

My personality has become a hodgepodge of personas, each intended for specific interactions. They help me get along without revealing the person underneath. But, the more I mask, the more exhausted I become.

Removing the mask is scary and it requires vulnerability, which is not something I was raised to cultivate. Pleasing other people was what I was taught. Self-sacrifice for the sake of other’s comfort and welfare.

I want to do it differently—for my own sake, and for my kids.

I want them to grow up to know that the best they can offer is their most authentic self. That’s the lesson we are learning together. Not perfection, not performance. Just the slow, uncomfortable process of taking the mask off, piece by piece, and learning to trust that what’s underneath is already enough.

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