Loneliness

On the outside, I look like I’m doing just fine. People often see me as capable, responsible, and put together. I show up every day, get things done, and smile when expected. But what most people don’t see is how much effort it takes just to hold everything together. Some days, even just existing feels like a full-time job.

My inner world is comprised of anxiety, constant overthinking, exhaustion, and burnout from masking all the time. I can be sitting in a room full of people, nodding along, appearing engaged, while my mind is racing through everything I’ve said, everything I might say, and everything I’m worried I said wrong. There’s a deep disconnect between how I’m perceived and I actually feel.

Being labeled “high-functioning” makes it seem like I don’t have any outward struggles. Like daily tasks come easily for me. But honestly everything requires extra effort. I have to adapt, mask, and push through even when my body is begging me to slow down and rest.

I often wonder why doing “normal” things takes so much out of me. Even just going out for a walk with my dog, I feel hyper alert, ready for a social interaction to come my way. And in those moments of alertness, I feel on edge and like something wrong will happen. My mind will start racing with thoughts on how to get out of a situation, or even how to handle one.

This label makes my struggles invisible. It makes me question whether my feelings are valid at all. If I’m managing does that mean I’m not allowed to struggle? I’ve had moments where I thought, other people have it worse, and I shouldn’t feel this way. But just because I look fine doesn’t mean I’m not fighting battles every day.

I constantly live with mental exhaustion, emotional burnout, and sensory overload. Things like loud environments or even quiet ones will drain me quickly. If I’m too overstimulated by noise, lights, and conversations, they can make my body feel like it’s short-circuiting.

I’ve always felt off balance, like I’m stuck at the top of a teeter-totter, frozen in panic, waiting for something or someone to bring me back down to the ground. When that doesn’t happen, I retreat further inward, and it gets lonely and isolating there. I can be surrounded by people and still feel completely unseen, trapped inside my body with and ache that’s indescribable.

My big thing is social interactions. They take more from me than most people realize. Even in short conversations, I’m left feeling depleted. When I get home, I shut my bedroom door and let everything spill out. All of the heavy sighs, tears, and silence.

What no one sees is how much energy it takes to perform “okay.” I put on the charm, laugh at the right moments, and speak with enthusiasm. Something that has never felt fully me. Masking is how I survive, but it’s also something that pulls me further away from myself.

For neurodivergent people, hiding becomes second nature. We learn early which parts of us are acceptable and which aren’t. So, we tuck away the stimming, the emotional intensity, the confusion, the overwhelm.

Our brains process information rapidly and deeply, creating constant internal noise. Conversations replay on loop. Small moments get analyzed from every angle. Rest doesn’t come easily because our minds are always working, always scanning.

What I’m learning is that being “high-functioning” doesn’t mean I’m not struggling. It means that I’ve figured out ways to get by that aren’t always visible. I know that my exhaustion isn’t imagined, and that my overwhelm isn’t a sign of weakness. I don’t need to prove my pain by falling apart to deserve care.

Have you ever felt invisible while trying so hard to keep it together?

“Just because I look fine doesn’t mean I’m not fighting battles every day.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #AutismSpectrumDisorder #ADHD #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #Depression

My family has had a major impact on my mental health and how I view the world. I truly believe it shaped me into the person I am today—for better or worse. I’m understanding just how much the impact of family can have on mental well-being.

Growing up, I inherited two very different energies. My mom instilled worry, fear, and anxiety. She’s a worrywart. To this day, I can’t even leave the house without being asked where I’m going or what I’m doing. There’s always concern, always anticipation of what could go wrong instead of what could go right.

My dad, on the other hand, is calm, cool, and collected. He has the patience of a saint and an inner strength I didn’t fully understand until recently. He and I are a lot alike—quiet, shy, reserved. I realized he didn’t really instill much emotionally, but he inspired a quiet steadiness that I now know I carry.

Somehow, I became a spitting image of both of them.

Anxious, yet calm.

Alert, yet reserved.

Constantly thinking, yet often silent.

Growing Up in Stress and Silence

There are many moments from my childhood that still stay with me. I witnessed a lot of stress. I experienced a lot of yelling. And I felt lonely and isolated from all of that. I never had a sibling to help get me through it or understand how I felt, so unfortunately, I was on my own.

What made it harder was feeling like there was no one in my family that I could really talk to. No one seemed to understand my mental health struggles. I don’t think it was ever something that truly crossed their minds, even though I often expressed my feelings intensely and unpredictably.

Feeling “Different” in a Family That Felt “Normal”

From other family members, I was often made to feel guilty or ashamed of who I was. My shyness was misunderstood and people didn’t see that it went beyond being “quiet.” My quietness had underlying noise because my thoughts were sensitive, anxious, and loud.

I felt out of touch with my family because they seemed “normal,” and I felt like I wasn’t. That sense of being different followed me everywhere, and I internalized it.

The Mental Patterns I Still Carry

I’ve done a lot of damage to myself over the years—and honestly, I still do—by overthinking everything.

I create these scenarios in my head and believe them to be true. I convince myself that people are judging me, don’t like me, or think negatively about me. Sometimes those thoughts are rooted in reality, but most of the time, they aren’t.

Either way, they hurt. And those patterns didn’t come from nowhere. They were shaped by an environment where emotions were loud, safety felt inconsistent, and my internal world was never fully met with understanding.

Holding Love and Truth at the Same Time

What’s important for me to say is that I love my family dearly. I truly did have a great childhood in so many ways. But both things can’t exist at once.

I can be grateful and acknowledge the ways my mental health was impacted. I can love my family and wish that someone had paid closer attention to the signs of my neurodivergence.

Often, I wonder how different things might have been if someone had noticed sooner. If my sensitivity had been understood instead of dismissed, if my emotional depth had been supported instead of overlooked. It wouldn’t have erased the struggles, but it might’ve helped me feel less alone inside them.

What I’ve Come to Understand

My family may have helped shape the way I think, feel, and navigate the world, but in an unexpected way, they helped me understand who I am.

I am sensitive, deeply emotional, anxious, and calm all at the same time.

For me, healing has meant unlearning shame, practicing self-compassion, and reminding myself that the ways I learned to cope were once necessary. I wasn’t wrong for surviving the way I did.

Family dynamics can leave a lasting imprint on our mental health and sometimes it’s in ways we don’t understand until much later in life.

How have your family dynamics shaped the way you see yourself?

“Sometimes the hardest battles are fought quietly, where no one can see, yet they shape who we become.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #Depression #Anxiety #ADHD #Neurodiversity