Breaking the Silence

How Fear of Perception Has Kept Me Hidden

A personal reflection on discovery, burnout, research, and the new challenge of sharing what I've learned

The Bright One Who Went Unnoticed

I was an awkward, chatty, gifted child who never quite fit in but never stood out as different enough to warrant attention—slipping through the cracks with top grades and a carefully cultivated invisibility. As a late-diagnosed AuDHD woman, I lived in the liminal space between neurotypical expectations and neurodivergent reality, never quite knowing which version of myself was "appropriate" to share with the world.

But here's the thing—I had no idea I wasn't neurotypical. No idea at all. It wasn't until my youngest daughter was diagnosed four years ago that I began to recognise myself in the descriptions of autism and ADHD. The diagnosis came at 44, just two years ago, after two years of research that started with trying to understand my daughter and ended with understanding myself.

For over four decades, I had unconsciously mastered what we now understand as masking—not as a deliberate strategy, but as an automatic survival mechanism I wasn't even aware I was using. Without realising it, I had learnt to modulate my voice, to soften my directness, to apologise for my intensity before anyone could call it "too much." I thought everyone did this. I thought this constant self-monitoring and adjustment was simply how one navigated the world.

The Crash That Led to Discovery

The unmasking that followed my diagnosis brought its own challenges. What I didn't expect was the complete collapse that came with finally understanding why life had always felt so exhausting. Burnout hit like a freight train—sudden, devastating, and total. The last two years have been spent largely in bed, my world shrunk to the size of a king mattress, surrounded by books, and the laptop that became my lifeline to understanding.

During those months of recovery, something unexpected happened. Freed from the demands of performing neurotypical productivity, I began to research and write with an intensity I'd never experienced before. Without the exhausting performance of being "normal," my mind could finally focus on what fascinated it most: understanding neurodivergence, particularly the experience of late-diagnosed women like myself.

I devoured research papers, connected dots across disciplines, wrote thousands of words exploring the intersection of autism, ADHD, trauma, perimenopause and late diagnosis. In the quiet of my recovery, I produced more authentic, passionate work than I had in decades of trying to fit into neurotypical expectations of what research and writing should look like.

The New Fear: Emerging Into the Light

Now, at 46, as I slowly emerge from the cocoon of burnout recovery, I find myself facing an entirely new challenge. For the first time in my life, I have something substantial to share—two years' worth of insights, research, and writing born from the depths of personal experience and academic rabbit-hole dives. But with this treasure trove of knowledge comes a fear I never experienced before: the overwhelming fear of being perceived at all.

This isn't a fear I've carried for years—it's barely six months old, emerging as I've started to contemplate sharing my work with the world. Before my diagnosis, I was unconsciously masking, so the fear wasn't there because I didn't understand what I was hiding. During burnout, I was too focused on survival and understanding to worry about others' opinions. But now, as I prepare to step back into public discourse, the weight of being seen—truly seen—feels overwhelming.

The fear isn't just about being perceived as neurodivergent. It's the all-consuming anxiety of being perceived at all. Every word I might write will be scrutinised. Every opinion I share could be judged. Every moment of authenticity might lead to confrontation, missed opportunities, or rejection. It's the hyperawareness that comes with finally understanding who I am, combined with an internalised critical voice that whispers I'm constantly falling short of some invisible standard.

This fear manifests as second-guessing every expression, monitoring every social cue, and the exhausting mental gymnastics of trying to anticipate how others might interpret my every move. It can trigger anything from mild social unease to full panic at the thought of putting myself out there.

The Weight of Being Seen: Every Detail Under Scrutiny

There's a peculiar burden that comes with stepping into visibility when you've spent a lifetime unconsciously hiding. Now that I understand my neurodivergence, I'm hyperaware of every behaviour, every word choice, every social misstep. The fear isn't just about being seen as autistic or having ADHD—it's about being seen at all, and the constant worry that any perception will be negative.

I find myself second-guessing the very work that felt so authentic during my recovery. Will people focus on my message or will they scrutinise my delivery? Will my passion be seen as valuable intensity or an uncomfortable obsession? Will my directness be appreciated as clarity or criticised as social awkwardness? Will my thoroughness be valued or seen as an inability to be concise?

Every interaction feels loaded with potential for judgement. I catch myself monitoring my facial expressions, rehearsing casual conversations, and editing my natural responses until they're barely recognisable. The irony isn't lost on me—the very authenticity that allowed me to produce meaningful work during my burnout is now threatened by the fear of how that authenticity might be perceived by others.

The ADHD Paradox: When Inconsistency Feels Like Failure

My ADHD adds another layer of complexity to the fear of being perceived. While my autistic side craved the deep research and systematic understanding that filled my burnout period, my ADHD brain operates in cycles of intense focus and complete depletion. I've produced brilliant work, but I know my energy for engagement is limited and unpredictable.

What if I share something with enthusiasm and then disappear for weeks? What if people expect consistent interaction that my brain can't deliver? What if my natural cycles of hyperfocus and exhaustion are interpreted as unreliability or lack of commitment? The fear of being seen as flaky, inconsistent, or unprofessional looms large, even though I know these cycles are simply how my brain works.

There's also the constant worry about oversharing or under-sharing, saying too much in the moment of hyperfocus or going completely silent during overwhelm. Both feel like they invite judgement, and I find myself paralysed by the impossibility of finding the "right" amount of engagement that won't be perceived negatively.

The Linguistic Giftedness Paradox: When Perfect Memory Becomes a Liability

One of the most unexpected fears that has emerged as I prepare to share my research is the terror of inadvertent plagiarism. As someone who is linguistically gifted—a common trait among neurodivergent individuals—I have an almost photographic memory for language. I can recall entire passages, specific phrasings, and unique combinations of words with startling accuracy, sometimes years after first encountering them.

This gift, which has served me well throughout my academic life, has now become a source of paralysing anxiety. What if something I write, something that feels entirely original in the moment, is actually a verbatim recreation of someone else's work that my brain has stored and retrieved without my conscious awareness? What if my subconscious mind has filed away a particularly elegant turn of phrase or a compelling argument structure, only to present it back to me as my own thinking?

The fear is compounded by the fact that during my two years of intensive research, I consumed thousands of articles, papers, and resources. My brain, in its neurodivergent efficiency, catalogued not just the concepts but the exact language used to express them. Now, as I write, I find myself second-guessing every sentence that feels particularly well-crafted, wondering if it's truly mine or if it's a half-remembered fragment from someone else's work.

This creates a cruel irony: the very linguistic abilities that allow me to synthesise complex ideas and express them clearly also make me afraid to trust my own voice. I've started obsessively fact-checking my own thoughts, running phrases through search engines, and qualifying statements that I know to be original simply because they sound "too good" to be mine. The fear of being perceived as a plagiarist—even an accidental one—threatens to silence the very gift that makes my research valuable.

But there's an even deeper layer to this linguistic anxiety: after decades of unconscious masking and chameleoning, I'm no longer certain which voice is authentically mine. My linguistic giftedness didn't just allow me to absorb and recall information—it enabled me to unconsciously mirror the speech patterns, writing styles, and even thought processes of those around me. I became a linguistic shapeshifter, adapting my voice to match whatever environment I found myself in.

Academic settings called forth one voice—measured, cautious, peppered with appropriate jargon. Professional environments summoned another—confident but not too assertive, collaborative but not too eager. Personal relationships brought out yet another version—warmer, more casual, carefully calibrated to match the emotional tone of whoever I was speaking with. I did this so automatically, so unconsciously, that I never questioned whether any of these voices were actually mine.

Now, as I sit down to write authentically, I find myself paralysed by a terrifying question: which of these voices represents the real me? When I write with academic precision, am I being authentic or am I channelling every professor I've ever listened to? When I adopt a more conversational tone, is that my natural voice or am I unconsciously mimicking the bloggers and writers I admire? The fear isn't just that I might accidentally plagiarise someone else's words—it's that I might not even know what my own words sound like anymore.

This linguistic identity crisis adds another layer to the fear of being perceived. It's not just about how others will judge my work—it's about the deeper terror that there might not be an authentic "me" to judge at all, just a collection of borrowed voices and absorbed patterns that I've mistaken for my own thoughts.

The Masking Dilemma: Authentic Voice vs. Acceptable Voice

The most challenging part of preparing to share my work is the constant internal battle between authenticity and acceptability. During my burnout research phase, I wrote with complete authenticity—no filter, no performance, just pure exploration and insight. The work is good precisely because it's unmasked.

But as I prepare to make it public, I catch myself falling back into old patterns of hyperawareness. Should I soften this conclusion? Make that section less intense? Add disclaimers to my passionate arguments? Rewrite this paragraph so it sounds more "professional"? The temptation to mask my work, to sand down its rough edges and make it more palatable, battles constantly with the knowledge that its power lies in its authenticity.

This internal critic has become relentless, pointing out every way my writing might be "too much"—too direct, too passionate, too personal, too academic, too emotional. It's the fear of being perceived as unprofessional, inappropriate, or simply wrong that threatens to strip away everything that makes the work valuable in the first place.

The Cost of Silence

Before my diagnosis I wasn't worried about sharing my voice because I didn't fully understand what that voice was or what I had to say. Now I do, and the fear of being dismissed, pathologised, or stereotyped threatens to keep valuable insights locked away just when they could be most helpful to others navigating similar journeys.

While I'm busy protecting myself from potential judgement, I'm also potentially depriving the world of perspectives it desperately needs. The research insights that came from my unique way of processing information during crisis. The connections my neurodivergent brain made between disparate fields of study. The representation that other late-diagnosed AuDHD individuals need to see.

Finding My Voice in Real Time

The journey to sharing authentically is happening right now, as I write this. It's neither linear nor easy, but it's immediate and urgent in a way I never expected. I'm learning that the permission to be authentically neurodivergent in public spaces isn't something I wait to receive—it's something I give myself, one piece of writing at a time.

Each paragraph I share without excessive editing, each insight I publish in its unfiltered form, each moment I choose authenticity over acceptability, I'm not just advocating for myself. I'm creating space for others to do the same.

The Permission I'm Giving Myself

The fear of perception is real and new, but I'm learning to see it as information rather than instruction. The fear tells me that sharing feels vulnerable—and vulnerability is often where our most important work lives. The research I've done, the insights I've gained, the connections I've made during my deepest struggles—these aren't just personal discoveries. They're contributions that could help others understand their own journeys.

An Invitation to Other Emerging Voices

To the other late-diagnosed AuDHD individuals reading this, perhaps sitting on research you've done during your own recovery periods, insights you've gained through your own struggles, knowledge you're afraid to share—the world needs your voice. Not the masked version, not the neurotypical-approved edition, but the real, authentic, beautifully neurodivergent you that emerged from your deepest understanding.

Your burnout research isn't just personal recovery—it's expertise born from lived experience. Your hyperfocus isn't obsession—it's the deep dive that leads to breakthrough understanding. Your need for authenticity isn't rigidity—it's the foundation that allows your most important work to emerge.

Moving Forward: Authenticity as Courage

Sharing our authentic selves after late diagnosis isn't just personal growth—it's an act of courage that creates representation for others. Every time we publish something unmistakably neurodivergent, we're challenging the narrow definitions of what academic and creative voices should sound like. We're creating visibility for the next generation of AuDHD individuals who deserve to see themselves reflected in the work they admire.

The fear of being perceived may be new for me, but I'm learning to let it coexist with purpose. To write not in spite of my neurodivergence, but because of it. To share not when I'm perfectly polished, but when I have something valuable to contribute—which, it turns out, is right now.

Because the truth is, the world has been missing our voices for years, and it's time we stopped letting fear keep us silent.

Author's Note:

This post represents my personal experience as a late-diagnosed AuDHD woman. Neurodivergence manifests differently for everyone, and I recognise that my experience is just one of many valid perspectives in our beautifully diverse community.