I mentioned verbal masking recently, and as promised, here’s another dive into it. There’s still so much to unpack, especially around how we know it’s happening—and what it costs us when it does. This is yet another part, and trust me, we’re only just scratching the surface.

Let’s start with something deceptively ordinary: gesticulation.

It’s easy to overlook, right? People talk with their hands all the time. It’s considered passionate, expressive, energetic. But for me—and for many others with AuDHD—it’s more than a flourish. Gesticulation is regulation. It’s grounding. It’s access. When my brain fogs over and the words scatter like startled pigeons, my hands step in. They hold rhythm, they shape thoughts, they coax out language that otherwise sits trapped in static.

Except here’s the thing: I’ve been taught to suppress it. Not with punishment, but with subtle social conditioning and years of self-consciousness. I catch myself stuffing my hands under my thighs. Crossing my arms. Jamming my fists into coat pockets like I’m hiding contraband. Not because I’m angry or closed off, but because somewhere along the way, I learned that moving too much meant being “too much.” That expressive hands drew attention I didn’t want. And worse—that they marked me as different.

And here’s where the wider conversation cracks open. Neurotypical body language is often decoded with rigid rules. Crossed arms mean disinterest. Lack of eye contact means dishonesty. Talking too much means attention-seeking. But those rules don’t apply across neurodivergence. They weren’t written for us. The way we move, emote, speak—or don’t speak—is layered with meaning that’s unique to how our brains function. Judging those expressions through a neurotypical lens doesn’t just miss the point. It misreads people entirely.

In my case, the mask began young, and like any well-worn disguise, I barely registered it after a while. I knew I talked a lot. I knew I rambled when nervous. I knew I lost words mid-thought and sometimes couldn’t speak at all when tired or overwhelmed. But I didn’t know this was masking. I didn’t even know what masking was until a couple weeks ago, when a content creator casually described their experience with verbal masking in AuDHD. And just like that, the floor gave out beneath me.

Initially, I resisted the realization. My instinct was to analyze, dissect, challenge. “Am I just copying someone’s story?” “Is this confirmation bias?” “Have I tricked myself into thinking I’m neurodivergent to justify burnout and isolation?” That spiral of doubt took me out for days. It was a mix of grief, disbelief, and cognitive overload. But the signs refused to be ignored. The verbal fog that creeps in when emotions swell. The slurred speech under stress. The tip-of-the-tongue moments that don’t resolve. The way I could hold court during emergencies for others but crumble when advocating for myself.

That duality stung the most. I’ve worked in medical settings. My background spans multiple perspectives—not just professional, but personal and academic. When someone else is in crisis, I lock in. I speak clearly. I problem-solve. I lead. But when it’s me? When I’m trying to explain pain in a doctor’s office, request accommodations, or navigate mental health support? The words shut down. I go mute or hyper-verbal. I ramble until someone tells me to stop—especially in the dentist’s chair when sedation waits on silence.

It’s not just awkward. It’s dangerous. I’ve avoided the ER unless absolutely necessary, and even then, I’ve nearly put myself at risk because I couldn’t articulate what was wrong. When I do make it, I either freeze or unravel completely. There’s rarely a middle ground. And that inconsistency has fed self-doubt for decades.

Some of that behavior, I now know, stems from trauma. Childhood wasn’t violent, but it was filled with verbal expectations I couldn’t meet. I was told I talked too much. That I was like the Energizer Bunny. That my chatter could power the whole house for a week. But when I didn’t talk? When I cried or fell silent under pressure? I was told to “use your words” in tones that felt more like a command than support. And that pattern—of having speech demanded while also being shamed for it—rewired how I communicated.

I became the kid who talked nonstop. Not because I was confident, but because I was compensating. I was performing fluency to mask fear, confusion, and dysregulation. And the larger the group, the louder I became. Two people I don’t know? Nerves. Three? Panic. Four or more? Verbal overdrive. Looking back, the tears sting harder now than they ever did then. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t speak clearly when upset. Why I lost words when I needed them most. And worse, why adults didn’t see those moments as distress signals.

That brings me to what might be one of the most damaging pieces of my early experience: therapy. Specifically, Applied Behavior Analysis—or ABA, just as you suspected. It’s often pitched as gold-standard treatment for autistic children, but its methods are increasingly criticized by autistic adults who’ve endured it firsthand. And I’m one of them.

I wasn’t formally diagnosed as a child, so my experience wasn’t labeled ABA. But the techniques? They were textbook. Forced speech drills. Tongue twisters with a pen between my teeth. Repetition until exhaustion. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Sally sells seashells by the seashore. Over and over, until my jaw ached and my voice blurred. I learned quickly: cry silently. Tears meant failure. Resistance meant punishment. So I masked my pain and followed the script.

The core philosophy behind ABA—and many behaviorist models—is compliance. Shape behavior until it fits. Reinforce the “right” response, ignore the “wrong” ones. If a child has a meltdown, don’t comfort. Don’t validate. Wait it out until they comply. The trauma that leaves behind? Lasting. Deep. Invisible. And for me, it taught that verbal communication was mandatory—not authentic.

Now, as an adult newly navigating AuDHD, I’m heart-wrenchingly grateful that my autism slipped under the radar as a child. That my masking was “good enough” to avoid formal ABA treatment. Because while masking came at a cost, I know what full exposure to ABA can do. PTSD. Disconnection. Identity erasure. Fear of being “wrong” even when asking for help. The idea that advocacy must always be polished and proper—even if you’re drowning.

And the aftermath doesn’t fade with time. Not when verbal masking shows up in every interaction, every relationship, every medical appointment. Not when supports for late-diagnosed autistic adults in Canada are practically non-existent. No mentorship. No tailored therapy. No systemic understanding that AuDHD even exists. You’re expected to self-navigate. To Google your own truth. To advocate for yourself with executive dysfunction tugging you under.

This blog series—these words—are part therapy, part rebellion. They’re advocacy wrapped in storytelling. And if someone’s reading this wondering if it’s “too much,” or “too detailed,” or “too raw”—I say let it be all of those things. Because the damage from misunderstanding neurodivergence is already too deep for soft edits. It’s time to say it clearly: masking causes harm. Suppression causes harm. Ignoring meltdowns causes harm. And the longer we pretend these kids will “grow out of it” if pushed hard enough, the more adults we’ll raise who carry silent trauma into every conversation.

I’m no longer one of those adults pretending it doesn’t matter. I’m here now—speaking as I am, not as I was taught to be. And if that means saying too much, gesturing too wildly, or writing thousands of words to reclaim my voice… then so be it.