The Cost of Wearing a Corporate Mask

During the peak of COVID, I got a major step up in my corporate career. I moved into a role I'd always wanted: a learning and development facilitator and coach. This was a dream job that allowed me to grow as a mentor and influencer, while also working on passion projects like instructional design and change

management.

For the first two years, our work was strictly virtual. But as the world began to open up, the company decided to transition back to being fully in-person. I was incredibly excited. For years, I had a dream of public speaking and getting to feel the energy of a room. I knew there was a huge difference between a screen and a live audience. I was ready to soak up that energy, read the room, and feel that connection again. Little did I know, this return wouldn't feel like a homecoming at all. Instead, it would reveal a part of myself I had been unknowingly hiding for years.

The Subtle Shift

The first few weeks of being back in the office were filled with excitement. I felt a dopamine high from meeting and connecting with people. On the surface, it seemed like I was building genuine bonds, but deep down, I knew I was still holding back, though I couldn't put my finger on why.

As the days got longer and more draining, my body felt like it was in a constant state of panic. I felt anxious about everything, consumed by a need to prove my worth. My mind was constantly racing, and I felt this restless urge to move. I started to fall behind—tasks, emails, and organization felt like a never-ending game of catch-up. I kept trying to juggle more, but it seemed like things were slipping through my fingers at every turn. A deep sense of inadequacy took hold, and I became paranoid, convinced that people were talking about me behind my back. I felt like I just didn't belong and would never measure up.

My workplace was a sensory nightmare I couldn't escape. The lights were so incredibly bright they made me squint, adding a constant physical strain. A white noise machine was meant to muffle the sounds of phone calls, but my ears only focused on that one, unsettling hum, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else. My brain processes sound like a megaphone, unable to filter certain noises, so every conversation and every cough felt like an assault. And then there were the smells—too much perfume, someone's leftover fish microwaved for lunch—which clung to the air for hours. When I would walk into a room without the white noise machine, I would feel my body relax just a little, a brief moment of relief that was quickly replaced by the next sensory challenge.

What I didn't realize at the time was that my biggest challenge wasn't in my career goals; it was in the constant act of masking. The more I felt the overwhelm, the more I tried to hide my discomfort and frustration. I was so worried about my personality and all the things I truly hated about my neurodivergencies that they came crashing through the doors like a flash flood. I couldn't control it. It just kept rushing in.

The social drain of giving myself to people all day to care for and coach them left me with nothing. My emotional outbursts started to become more frequent, and I felt inadequate. The constant effort to network and be seen as valuable enough for a new role pushed me further and further into a spiral. I was so burnt out that I couldn't show up as the person I wanted to be anymore. I allowed all the parts of myself I "hated" to come out, and most days, I just wanted to hide because I was so embarrassed.

At the time, I had no idea what was happening. I was masking so much that it led to a complete burnout. I was constantly checking to make sure I was using the right language, looking over my shoulder to see who was around, and trying to hide my stimming to appear professional. I wore uncomfortable clothes to be seen and forced myself to have lunch with groups of people I didn't feel I belonged with, instead of taking a moment to breathe outside. These small things led to so much overstimulation that I felt I had failed. I felt worthless.

The Lightbulb Moment: Finding a Name for the Unraveling

My mind and body were in a state of constant distress, and I was desperately trying to figure out why. In my search for answers, I started working with my counselor to manage the overwhelming feelings that were not only affecting my work but also spilling into my home life. My husband, the person who was trying to understand and support me, became the outlet for all my pent-up disappointment and exhaustion. It broke my heart to have outbursts toward the person I loved most.

As I began researching ADHD, I was led down a rabbit hole into the world of autistic behaviors. I connected with a neurodiversity network at my workplace and joined a Toastmasters group, where I started writing speeches about my experiences. Through my research and my own stories, I noticed the descriptions of behaviors that fit into the category of AUDHD.

When I get interested in something, it becomes a passion, and I can't stop. I dove deeper, researching the experiences of women with ADHD and AUDHD. I discovered that so many women had similar stories of stress and things beginning to unravel when they were forced into environments that challenged their comforts. Things like overstimulating sounds, smells, lights, clothes, and constant socializing—these were things we were used to having in small doses. When that was no longer the case, our overstimulated bodies and minds reached a tipping point.

I learned that once our bodies hit a capacity where they can no longer mask, the floodgates open, leading to patterns of regression and almost "childlike" responses to things a neurotypical person wouldn't react to. This was my "aha" moment. I realized how much I was masking myself, and all the "small" things I had been doing to fit in were the very things that were leading to my burnout.

Once I understood what was happening, I tried to advocate for my needs, but by then, it felt too late. I was worried that I would be seen as asking for too much or that my needs would be misunderstood. After all, how do you explain that you need to decompress in ways that others simply don't? I had a name for my struggle, but I felt I had lost the chance to fix it.

The Best Thing That Could Have Happened

The months following my realization were a slow, painful crawl. I tried to piece myself back together to be a productive employee, but my direct leader and I simply didn’t have enough time to figure out a quicker turnaround. Just as I started to feel a glimmer of progress, the company announced massive layoffs. I was one of the many chosen.

The day I was let go, I’ll never forget that hollowing feeling. I had a sense that something was off, but when the news hit, I literally fell to the floor as the HR individual left the call. My worst fears of being a failure had come true. I felt worthless. I had spent nearly a decade at that company, believing I would retire there. I was naive to think so, and my heart was set on growing within that organization.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that the universe had a bigger plan for me. It’s funny because months earlier, I’d been telling people that I felt something "big" was going to happen. I had no idea this would be the massive change that would propel me into the happy, bright, and free woman I desired to be—the woman I was falling in love with again after a decade of hiding in an emotionally abusive relationship from a past marriage.

I took five months to just go and live my life. I dove into building the small business my husband and I had started a few years ago. I began doing markets, building our brand, and expanding our products. This journey also led me here—to share my story in the hope that it might help someone else. It's about inspiring others to make the changes they desire or to simply trust that the universe has a plan. Don’t fight what life throws at you; lean in.

Suddenly, I was the one in control. I could surround myself with scents that calmed me, like lavender, or a zesty orange to give me a boost. If my clothes felt too much, I could change into something comfortable, and my brain power could be spent on what I actually wanted to get done instead of the distraction of a scratchy tag. I was able to take micro-breaks in complete quiet. If I needed to feel more energized, I could choose to be around other people by going to a coffee shop or a recreation center. I was finally able to flow with my brain instead of forcing it to sit in an environment where all I could focus on was the overstimulation.

Today, I can finally say I’m recovering from a burnout that stole a year and a half of my life. It was a dark path of exploring medications, self-medicating, and countless nights of tears and self-depreciation. But I can also say it wasn't a waste. That experience taught me my true needs. It showed me what kind of workplace I would thrive in, what kind of people I'm seeking to network with, adventure with, and work with.

I’m not fully recovered, but I am getting stronger, more knowledgeable, and closer to finding the people and opportunities I desire. I've already met some amazing prospects, and I am so excited to see where my life takes me.

Five months ago, I felt my world was over and that I was the biggest failure. I thought all the certificates, late nights of learning, and stretching my skills to feel valued were a waste.

Yet, here I am, giving myself to the universe. I’m trusting my heart and soul in everything I do. I’m choosing things that make me feel good, and I know that one day, I will find the room where I am most welcomed—with people who see the value I bring and whose value I will see in return.

Here’s to the future, to new experiences, new people, and new places. Life is a journey, so let’s just go explore it with a full heart and the trust that the universe has a plan. I just need to open my eyes to the doors it opens.