From the outside, I look like everyone else.
I speak, I smile, I laugh at the right times. In lectures, I raise my hand and make clever points. At social events, I hover by the snack table, nodding along, making small talk about professors, weekend plans, research. Nothing seems out of place. I’m functional. Friendly. Normal.
But inside, I am doing mental math.
Every second of every interaction, I am solving an equation: If she raises her eyebrow, what does it mean? If I laugh now, will it seem fake? Does my voice sound too flat? Too eager? I track every face, every tone, every unspoken rule. There’s no autopilot here. No intuition. Just a deeply rehearsed play.
That play has a name. It’s called masking.
Masking is what autistic people do to survive in a world that wasn’t built for us. For me, it started early. I noticed I didn’t always understand what was funny to others or why someone was upset or how to tell if I was being too quiet or too much. So I watched. I memorized. I mirrored. I made myself into a reflection of what the world wanted to see.
I’m considered mildly autistic. That means I fall into what’s sometimes called Level 1 Autism Spectrum Disorder, people who can often appear "typical" but still face significant challenges. We might make eye contact, speak fluently, hold down jobs or do well in school. But our brains are still wired differently. Social interactions don’t come naturally; they come from study, from practice, from internal scripts that run like code under our words.
Sometimes, people say, "You don’t seem autistic."
They mean it as a compliment. I know that. But it never feels like one. It feels like: You’re good at hiding. You’re doing a great job erasing yourself.
Because here’s what they don’t see: After a day of smiling and blending in, I’m so tired I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I lie in bed replaying conversations like game film, cringing at moments that felt off. I panic over texts I haven’t replied to because I don’t know what the right tone is. I wonder if people actually like me or just like the version of myself I’ve crafted for them.
Masking, for me, isn’t just a habit. It’s an armor. And armor gets heavy.
There’s a strange kind of grief that comes with being good at masking. You earn praise, friendships, opportunities, all through a version of yourself that doesn’t quite feel like you. And then you wonder: If I stopped trying so hard, would any of it stay? Would anyone stay?
And yet, masking kept me safe. It helped me avoid ridicule. It helped me feel like I belonged, even if that belonging was conditional. It gave me the illusion of ease, the comfort of invisibility. It let me pass.
But passing is not peace.
Autism, even in its mildest form, is not easy. It means I can give a class presentation without flinching but feel completely lost when someone tells a joke, and everyone laughs except me. It means I can memorize textbooks and lab protocols but can’t always tell if someone’s being sarcastic. It means I can carry conversations but rarely feel like I’m part of the group.
I’ve gotten better at letting myself be real — in moments, with certain people. I’ve started admitting when I don’t understand a social cue, when I need silence instead of small talk, when I’m not okay. And the people who stay in those moments — those are the ones I hold close.
I don’t want pity. I’m not broken. I’m not sad.
I just want to show that, even when someone looks like they’ve got it all figured out — when they’re high-functioning, smiling, thriving — they might still be fighting to be understood. Fighting to stay afloat. Fighting to not disappear behind the mask.
There is strength in survival. There is art in adaptation. But there’s also a cost. And, when we recognize that cost — when we make room for people to be unmasked, to be strange, to be themselves — we all get to breathe a little easier.
So, no, you might not know I’m autistic when you meet me.
But I am — in every moment, every smile, every word.
And I’m learning, slowly, that I don’t have to hide to be worthy.
I just have to be.
That’s enough.
Nishad Okutoyi is a freshman from Nairobi, Kenya studying Neuroscience.
