When Masking Hides More Than Neurodivergence: Anorexia, and the Cost of Performing “Okay”

For most of my life, I thought everyone was tired. 

Not physically tired, but emotionally tired. The kind of tired that comes from constantly monitoring yourself, analyzing every interaction, replaying conversations in your head, worrying about whether you said the wrong thing, wondering if people were upset with you, and trying to figure out the invisible rules that seemed to come so naturally to everyone else. 

I assumed everyone was doing this. 

I assumed everyone felt like they were acting. 

It wasn’t until adulthood that I began to understand the concept of masking and how deeply it had shaped my life. 

Masking is often discussed in conversations about neurodivergence. It refers to the conscious or unconscious process of suppressing, hiding, or compensating for traits that may be perceived as different in order to fit in socially. For many neurodivergent girls and women, masking becomes second nature. It becomes a survival skill. 

Looking back, I think I started masking when I was very young. 

I learned to study people. 

I watched how other girls interacted. I paid attention to their expressions, their tone of voice, their body language, their friendships, and the ways they seemed to navigate the world with ease. 

Meanwhile, I often felt different. 

I felt too sensitive. 

Too emotional. 

Too anxious. 

Too intense. 

Too much.

So I learned how to adapt. 

I learned how to smile when I felt uncomfortable. 

I learned how to laugh when I didn’t understand the joke. 

I learned how to appear confident when I was filled with self-doubt. 

I learned how to keep going even when I was overwhelmed. 

And perhaps most importantly, I learned how to hide. 

At the time, I didn’t recognize it as masking. I thought I was simply trying harder than everyone else. 

The difficult part about masking is that when you become good at it, people often stop seeing your struggles entirely. 

They see the performance. 

They see the accomplishments. 

They see the grades, the activities, the achievements, the responsibilities, the smiling photos, and the outward success. 

What they don’t see is the energy required to maintain it all. 

As I got older, perfectionism became one of the ways I maintained that mask. 

If I could be successful enough, organized enough, productive enough, helpful enough, maybe nobody would notice how much I was struggling internally. 

Perfectionism became a shield. 

It also became a trap. 

And somewhere along the way, that perfectionism collided with my eating disorder. 

When people think about eating disorders, they often imagine something obvious. They imagine visible suffering. They imagine someone who appears unwell. 

But eating disorders can be incredibly deceptive. 

Especially when they exist in people who have become experts at appearing okay. I know that because I was one of them. My anorexia didn't develop in isolation. It attached itself to beliefs I already carried about achievement, control, worthiness, and acceptance.

It attached itself to beliefs I already carried about achievement, control, worthiness, and acceptance. 

The same part of me that wanted to get everything right became the part of me that believed I could earn value through shrinking myself. 

The same part of me that monitored social interactions began monitoring food. 

The same part of me that constantly analyzed how others perceived me became obsessed with how my body was perceived. 

The same fear of not being enough simply found a different target. 

And because I was still functioning, many people didn’t immediately recognize the severity of what was happening. 

I was still showing up. 

Still accomplishing things. 

Still smiling. 

Still appearing responsible. 

Still appearing disciplined. 

In a culture that often praises self-control, determination, and productivity, it can be surprisingly easy for disordered behaviors to hide in plain sight. 

People compliment weight loss. 

People praise discipline. 

People admire dedication. 

People celebrate visible outcomes without always understanding what is happening underneath them.

What they often don’t see is the fear. 

The anxiety. 

The obsessive thoughts. 

The exhaustion. 

The loneliness. 

The constant mental calculations. 

The relentless self-criticism. 

One of the most painful realizations in recovery has been understanding how much of my life was spent performing. 

Not because I wanted to deceive anyone. 

Not because I was dishonest. 

But because I genuinely believed that being accepted depended on how well I could manage and improve myself, maintain control, and hide the parts of me that felt messy or difficult.

I became so focused on appearing okay that I lost touch with whether I actually was okay. Recovery has forced me to ask questions I spent years avoiding. 

Who am I when I’m not performing? 

Who am I when I’m not trying to earn approval? 

Who am I when I’m not trying to prove my worth through productivity, appearance, achievement, or self-sacrifice? 

Who am I underneath the mask? 

At 27, I am still learning the answers. 

I am still learning that vulnerability is not weakness. 

I am still learning that needing support is not failure.

I am still learning that my worth has never depended on how useful, productive, thin, successful, or “together” I appear. 

Most importantly, I am learning that healing is not about creating a better mask. It is about needing the mask less. 

It is about allowing myself to be seen. 

Not just when I am thriving. 

Not just when I am successful. 

Not just when I have everything figured out. 

But also when I am struggling. 

When I am uncertain. 

When I am imperfect. 

When I am human. 

There are many people walking around carrying stories similar to mine.

People who have spent years becoming experts at appearing okay.

People who have learned to hide their overwhelm, their anxiety, their neurodivergence, their eating disorders, and their pain behind achievement and perfectionism.

People who are exhausted from performing.

If that is you, I want you to know something I am still learning myself: 

You do not have to earn care by struggling silently. 

You do not have to prove you are sick enough to deserve support. 

And you do not have to keep carrying everything alone. 

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is let the mask come off. 

Even just a little.