Why I’m Writing This Under A Pseudonym
Why I’m Writing This Under A Pseudonym
BY BERN WOLFE
“Turns out, all along, the real costume was neuro-conformity,” my bestie’s LinkedIn post proclaims.
It’s one of his daily posts documenting his unmasking journey, where he’s decked out in full cosplay, basking in his out-and-proud ND glory to the tune of hundreds of likes.
As I scroll past, I can’t help but feel like I should be doing my own version of the same thing.
My own LinkedIn does not tout my ADHD superpowers. I don’t incorporate Sensory Processing Disorder into my identity as it exists on the internet.
I only share that I’m neurodivergent in professional settings with people who’ve earned my trust, those who get me without a lot of explaining. When I do share, it’s one-on-one, never in a large group. I do this to protect myself from what others will project onto me once they hear my diagnoses.
There’s part of me that wishes I could shine like my bestie. Another part just feels pressured. As if, as a successful business owner with a mid-life ADHD diagnosis, I should be some kind of inspirational public figure.
But if I lived my life solely based on “shoulds,” it would be a nervous system trainwreck. Just the thought of public disclosure tunes me, like a radio dial, to overstimulation central.
So I resist the pressure. I hold my diagnoses close to the vest in professional environments. It’s my right to. It’s how I secure my own oxygen mask before helping others and prevent the nervous system overdrive that comes with online attention.
A large part of why I want to hide under my desk when I think about disclosure is that there’s still neurodivergent stigma, especially in the corporate world.
Case in point: At my last job, surprise layoffs were announced during the heat of the pandemic. The CEO’s voice blared robotically through my headphones: “We are going through a company-wide reorganization.”
The days that followed stretched like they had been pulled at both ends. Texts from coworkers began rolling in faster than I could mentally process.
“Did you hear? I’m out,” Megan wrote. Her voice was always the loudest in brainstorming sessions, a scattershot of creativity powered by her ADHD, which she announced to our team proudly on her first day at the company. Just like that, she was cut from company channels, her avatar sitting blank on Teams like a ghost.
I learned, 2 weeks of phone chimes from laid-off coworkers later, that I was spared – which replaced my anxiety with survivor’s guilt. And I couldn’t help but notice that all the openly ADHD people in my creative department were among those who got the axe.
I’m not saying that our corporate overlords met and plotted, “Every ND must go!” But I had to wonder if my colleagues’ embrace of the label influenced some of their judgments, whether it colored their actions in a certain hue. And whether, in a time of financial tightening, heads of departments weren’t looking out extra hard for signs of stragglers who couldn’t produce at the rapid-fire pace that was now demanded.
After the layoffs, the “restructuring” landed me with a new boss.
The dynamics shifted. She now held the role my former manager had been positioning me for, while I was steadily pushed into a “type more, think less” type of role. I’d built teams, worked at a high level, and loved the autonomy to create thoughtful, impactful strategies. But the message now was loud and clear: you’re a monkey with a MacBook, and you’re worth depends only on output: more, more, MORE.
When I didn’t measure up to my doubled-yet-less-strategic workload, I was slapped with a performance improvement plan (PIP), corporate speak for, “We want you gone, but we don’t want you to sue us so we will give you unattainable milestones you need to hit to keep your job.”
I found my exit door before my boss could push me out. I started my own business, a creative services consultancy. I thought the independence from corporate culture might lessen my fear of publicly disclosing my ND status, but in some ways, it only intensified it.
Unlike a traditional job where you apply every few years, consulting means you’re constantly selling yourself. Every meeting, every pitch, and every email feels like an audition. You’re not just offering your skills; you’re offering you. That makes the stakes feel higher.
If I were an ND influencer, would the raised eyebrows I sometimes get in meetings when I pause a beat before speaking (due to processing delays) warp into thoughts of unprepared and lazy?
I imagine a client sighing when a deadline slips as if it happens every day, even if it’s the first time I dropped a ball in years.
After all, for most of my lifetime, ADHD has been associated with a stereotype of unruly boys, boys who couldn’t be tamed. And the corporate world is all about taming. I worry that the association hasn’t gone away — it’s just grown to include women like me who can’t be tamed. If men aren’t supposed to act that way in polite society (well, unless they are the founders of high-growth tech startups), women REALLY aren’t supposed to.
The unruly boys narrative has hardly been busted on a mass scale — ingrained stereotypes, the kind you grow up with, can take a lifetime to deprogram.
Because of this, most people’s associations with ADHD miss my key strengths, both in the workplace and outside it. With minor exceptions, most people don’t hear that diagnosis and think, “Hyperfocus will lead to productivity!” or “Wow, she probably has greater empathy and emotional sensitivity, which would make her a great leader.”
Instead, I assume they probably think, “What if she’s unreliable?”
If I’m being honest, though, there’s another factor at play here. Social media — and specifically, attention in the form of likes and comments — overstimulates me.
Last year, for example, I won an industry award. Posting about the award on LinkedIn felt like a Herculean task. I typed out the words, hit “post,” and turned my phone face down like it was about to explode.
It kind of did. I jolted from the immediate medley of chimes. My heart raced as I scrolled through reactions. Hours later, I felt utterly drained.
For my cosplaying bestie, unmasking publicly is his way of understanding and accepting his neurodivergence, instead of trying to shove his brain into boxes it will never fit into. It’s his way of taking care of himself. For me, doing the same entails avoiding the continual pings of post likes that send my blood pressure soaring.
We all have different authentic selves to become. Mine doesn’t involve shouting out my ND with a bullhorn — even though I love that other people’s do.
Protecting my energy, protecting my nervous system, and honoring when it says “no” — that’s the most loving thing I can do for myself in a world still tainted by stigma.
Bio: Although Bern Wolfe is not a real name, there is a real person behind the pseudonym who enjoys being her own boss, sending podcast-length voice notes back and forth with friends, and spending time in her happiest place on earth — her bed — preferably while cuddling with her partner and puppy.
