Let's start here: You are not a liar. The person you've been for the last 10, 20, or 40 years was not a fraud. She was a survivor. And every mask you ever wore was a brilliant, adaptive tool you engineered to get here.

After a late diagnosis, looking back on your life can feel like watching a film reel of strangers. There was the "super social" you in college, the "quiet and agreeable" you at your first job, the "perfectly put-together" you with your ex's family. You feel like a collection of scripts, and now that you know why you were acting, you're terrified there's no real person underneath it all. The question, "Who am I?" feels less like a philosophical query and more like a terrifying void.

And here's the neuroscience that explains exactly why: your sense of self is not monolithic. It's divided into a "narrative self" — your life story — and an "experiential self" — your present-moment, embodied experience. Right now, your narrative self is in crisis. The story you told about yourself for decades just got rewritten. But your experiential self — the one who always knew something was different, the one who felt the exhaustion, the one who had to recover for days after holiday gatherings — that self has been telling the truth all along.

You Are An Archaeologist, Not An Amnesiac

The human brain is a prediction engine. From a young age, your brain made a brilliant calculation: "Deviating from the social norm results in pain. Conforming results in safety." Neurodivergent masking is not a personality flaw; it is a learned, adaptive threat response managed by the prefrontal cortex to protect you from a world not built for your wiring. It is a testament to your ability to learn and survive.

And the research on identity disturbance goes deeper: dysfunction in the Default Mode Network (DMN) — the brain's self-referential storytelling center — is directly linked to an altered sense of self and depersonalization. That feeling of not knowing who you are? It's not philosophical confusion. It's your DMN being disrupted by decades of running someone else's narrative instead of your own. The good news: the DMN can be repaired. Not by finding a buried "true self" — but by building a new narrative that finally includes the truth.

You feel like an amnesiac trying to remember who you were. I want to offer a reframe: You are not an amnesiac. You are an archaeologist. Your job is not to magically "find" a true self that has been buried under rubble. Your job is to lovingly excavate the artifacts of your own survival, piece them together, and become the curator of your own story.

Cataloging Your Artifacts

Think about one of those "characters" from your past. Maybe it was the "agreeable" you at a former job. That wasn't a lie; it was a highly specialized tool. It was a mask you engineered to survive a specific environment — perhaps a workplace that prized conformity over innovation. Here in St. Louis, we have a perfect, city-wide example of this with the infamous question, "So, where'd you go to high school?" Many of us learned to have a smooth, simple answer ready — a conversational mask designed to navigate a very specific, and often exclusionary, cultural landscape. It wasn't a lie. It was a keycard.

Research confirms: the consequences of camouflaging are overwhelmingly negative, leading to exhaustion, anxiety, and a threatened sense of self. But here's the part the research doesn't always say: the exhaustion doesn't mean the camouflage was wrong. It means it was expensive. You paid a real price for real safety. The question now is whether you're still paying for safety you no longer need.

You are now the curator of your own museum. Your first task is to simply catalog the artifacts without judgment. You don't have to throw anything away yet. Just take inventory.

  • Your First Curatorial Task:

    • Pick one mask you've worn.

    • Give it an artifact name (e.g., "The Chill Girl Mask," "The Nod-and-Smile Helmet").

    • In what situation or era did you use it most?

    • What specific threat did it protect you from? (e.g., ridicule, exclusion, appearing stupid).

    • Acknowledge its service. Thank it for keeping you safe.

    • Ask: Do I still need this one?

The Support Cliff Is Real

Here's something that probably happened to you and nobody warned you about: post-diagnosis, individuals are often abandoned at a "support cliff" — given a label with no guidance, handed a "useless," pathologizing report, and left to navigate a period of intense burnout alone. You weren't supposed to figure this out by yourself. The system failed you at the exact moment you needed it most.

This is why the work isn't just about understanding your past — it's about building a bridge across that cliff. The goal of late-discovery support isn't to burn the archive of who you've been. It's to give you the tools and the permission to decide who you want to become, using the wisdom you've already earned.

Your past is not a crime scene. It is an archaeological site rich with evidence of your resilience. You are not lost. You are finally holding the map. Read about the impostor fear, explore the full guide to masking, or when you're ready: Start the expedition →

Part of: Neurodiversity Hub → | Related: Your Assessment as a User Manual · The Chameleon