Masking Real Emotions

Sometimes I laugh so you don’t see me cry. Sometimes I nod so you stop asking questions. Sometimes I smile because I was trained to, not because I feel okay. That’s what masking looks like—on a good day. The phrase “masking” sounds theatrical, like a costume you put on for a few hours and then take off when the curtain falls. But for me, it was never a show. It was how I kept my place in rooms that never felt built for me in the first place. I didn’t start faking emotions to be manipulative. I faked them because the real ones were too much—for them. For school. For work. For partners. For relatives. For my own children, sometimes. There’s this deep fear I’ve carried for as long as I can remember: if I let people see my real reactions, they’ll leave. Or worse—they’ll stay, but they’ll stop believing me. So I edited. I adjusted my tone when I felt misunderstood. I practiced faces in the mirror. I memorized reactions that other people considered “appropriate” for grief, joy, frustration, humor. I learned how to cry the right way—quietly. I learned how to look grateful when I was panicking inside. I learned that stillness was safer than honesty. Sometimes I didn’t even know I was doing it. It became instinct. Just like flinching. Just like holding your breath when a wave comes in. Because I knew—on some level—that being myself came with consequences. And honestly? I got good at it. So good that people complimented me on how calm I was under pressure. How polite my kids were. How thoughtful my emails sounded. How “put-together” I seemed. As if that was something to aspire to. But masking takes energy. And that energy has to come from somewhere. For me, it came from my body. From my sleep. From my health. From my ability to connect, even with myself. I’d smile through a parent-teacher conference, then cry in the car for no reason I could explain. I’d manage a meeting with perfect posture and walk out feeling like my bones were made of dust. I’d hold it together during a meltdown—mine or someone else’s—only to feel completely numb afterward. Like I had given away something I didn’t have to begin with. No one ever taught me that emotions could be out of sync with expression. That autistic people often feel more than we can show—or show more than we feel. That sometimes our bodies glitch when we’re overloaded. We freeze, go blank, or start laughing at the worst possible time. Not because we think it’s funny. Because we’re overwhelmed and don’t know how else to release it. You’d be amazed how often I’ve been punished for reacting “wrong.” Even now, as an adult with a diagnosis and language and hindsight, I still catch myself masking when I’m scared. Still hear that inner voice asking, “Is this the right reaction? Is this too much?” I still doubt myself mid-sentence because my face doesn’t match the feeling, and I don’t want to be called fake. But it’s not fake. It’s filtered. It’s coded. It’s managed. Because I’ve lived through what happens when I react honestly. I’ve seen the way people flinch when I cry too fast. The way they say “That’s intense” when I share something real. The way they lean back instead of forward. The way they tell me I’m overreacting, even when I’m trying to explain myself in the calmest voice I can manage. And I’m tired. Tired of explaining why I seem fine when I’m not. Tired of pretending not to care when I care deeply. Tired of putting my real feelings through twelve layers of approval before I say them out loud. Because here’s what masking doesn’t protect me from: the loneliness of being unseen. People like the version of me that’s always okay. They admire her. Respect her. Count on her. But they don’t know her. Because I’m not sure she’s real. The real me is messy. She cries in the shower. She shuts down when the schedule changes. She feels everything at 100 and then nothing at all. She overprepares, overstimulates, overthinks, and sometimes disappears for days because being in the world hurts too much. That version? The real one? She deserves to be known. She deserves relationships that don’t require translation. She deserves softness without suspicion. She deserves to be believed when she says, “I’m not okay,” even if she’s smiling. That’s why I’m done calling masking a skill. It’s not a skill. It’s a survival response. A cost. A wound you carry like armor and forget you’re bleeding under it. If you see someone who seems fine, ask again. If you love someone who goes quiet, don’t assume they’re okay. And if you are someone who masks to get through the day—I see you. I know what it costs. And I know what it feels like to wish someone could just read the subtext without you having to perform it. That’s why I built AWRYTE. Not to explain myself, but to stop apologizing for who I am. To write it down—not for clarity, but for proof. To give other people what I never had: a place where honesty doesn’t scare anyone away.