Neurodivergent Relationships Series - Part 3: The cost of masking in relationships

Most conversations about masking focus on what happens at work, in education, or in social situations. We talk about the effort involved in appearing more socially acceptable, the exhaustion of monitoring ourselves, and the relief that can come from finally letting the mask slip.

But I think one of the most significant places masking shows up is in relationships.

And not just once we're in them.

Often, long before they begin.

Masking is usually understood as something we do to gain acceptance or avoid rejection. At its core, I think it's often about safety. If I can figure out how to be accepted, I can avoid criticism, exclusion, abandonment, or judgement. For many neurodivergent people, this isn't a conscious strategy. It's something learned slowly over years.

You notice which parts of yourself are welcomed.

You notice which parts create problems.

You notice which versions of yourself seem to move through the world more easily than others.

Eventually, often without realising it, you become very good at adapting.

The difficulty is that this skill doesn't suddenly disappear when relationships enter the picture. In fact, for many people, it becomes even stronger.

When we meet somebody we like, somebody we admire, or somebody whose approval feels important, our attention can shift away from a simple question:

"Do I actually like this person?"

And towards a very different one:

"How do I get this person to like me?"

At first glance, those questions can seem almost identical. But they're not. One is focused on compatibility. The other is focused on acceptance.

When acceptance has become linked with safety, being liked can start to feel incredibly important. Important enough that we begin adapting ourselves around the other person. We learn what makes them laugh. We learn what they find attractive. We learn what they value. We learn which parts of ourselves seem to work best in their presence.

And before long, we can find ourselves performing a version of ourselves that feels more likely to be chosen.

Sometimes this strategy works remarkably well.

People do choose us. They fall in love with us. They tell us we're wonderful, interesting, funny, easy to be around. On the surface, it can look like the masking has done exactly what it was supposed to do.

The difficulty is that acceptance gained through adaptation often feels very different to acceptance gained through authenticity.

Even when the relationship appears successful, there can be a lingering sense that something important has been left out of the equation.

Because no matter how much somebody loves the version of you they're seeing, some part of you knows they haven't fully met you yet.

The validation feels good.

The acceptance feels good.

But the relationship itself can feel strangely empty.

Not because the other person has done anything wrong, but because you're carrying the exhausting responsibility of maintaining the conditions that created the connection in the first place.

Over time, that can become difficult to sustain.

Life happens. Stress happens. Burnout happens. Needs emerge. Differences emerge. The energy required to constantly adapt becomes harder to access, and the person underneath starts to become more visible.

This is often the point where people begin questioning the relationship itself.

Not because they've suddenly changed.

But because they're finally taking up more space within it.

The Unspoken Risks

One of the things I've noticed about masking is that it doesn't just change how we present ourselves to other people. Sometimes it changes where our attention goes.

When so much energy is directed towards becoming acceptable, there can be surprisingly little left over for asking whether the relationship itself feels right.

Instead of wondering whether we genuinely enjoy being with this person, we become preoccupied with whether they enjoy being with us.

Instead of noticing discomfort, we explain it away.

Instead of paying attention to incompatibility, we focus on maintaining connection.

Instead of asking whether somebody feels safe, available, kind, or emotionally mature, we're busy trying to become whatever version of ourselves feels most likely to secure their approval.

The irony is that the better somebody becomes at masking, the easier it can be to overlook signs that a relationship isn't actually a good fit.

Not because they lack insight, but because the drive for acceptance has become louder than the signals their own system is trying to send.

I think this is particularly true when validation has historically been scarce. When acceptance has felt conditional. When belonging has felt uncertain.

In those circumstances, approval can become incredibly powerful. Sometimes so powerful that we find ourselves repeatedly seeking it from the very people least capable of offering genuine acceptance.

I've often wondered whether this is why some people find themselves drawn towards relationships with people who are critical, dismissive, inconsistent, or emotionally unavailable.

On the surface it seems illogical. Why would anybody want validation from someone who makes them feel small? Why chase acceptance from someone who withholds it?

But if acceptance has become linked with safety, there can be a strange logic to it. For example:

• "If this person accepts me, then maybe I'm acceptable."

• "If the person who rejects everyone chooses me, perhaps that proves my worth in a way that acceptance from a safer person never could."

• "If I can win over the bully, the critic, or the emotionally unavailable person, perhaps I'll finally have evidence that I'm enough."

The problem, of course, is that this pursuit rarely creates safety.

It simply creates more opportunities to earn it... again and again.

Real safety tends to look quite different. It doesn't require constant performance. It doesn't depend on getting everything right. It doesn't disappear the moment you become inconvenient, emotional, overwhelmed, or human.

The healthiest relationships are rarely the ones where we perform best.

They're often the ones where we need to perform the least.

The ones where acceptance isn't something we have to win. Where understanding grows through honesty rather than adaptation. Where we spend less time managing how we're perceived and more time discovering whether we're genuinely known.

Because being chosen for a mask may feel validating.

But being loved for who you actually are is what creates safety.