A couple of months ago, I shared a piece here called “Not Fine. Not Broken.” In it, I opened up about something that’s lived in the background of my life for decades — my suspected (but undiagnosed) neurodivergence.
I wasn’t sure how it would land. But the response? It floored me.
So many people — men especially — reached out with the same reaction:
“Wait… me too?”
If you haven’t read it yet, I hope you will. You know… after this one.
Today, I want to take you deeper — into the wild, electric, often overwhelming space between my ears.
I live just an hour outside New York City. And I hate crowds.
I don’t go anywhere without my noise-canceling AirPods. Sensory overload? Instant shutdown. Too many voices in a room? I retreat inward.
But here’s the paradox:
Put me in a sold-out concert or a college football stadium? I’m golden. I can scream, sing, cheer, curse the refs — and feel alive. Because in those spaces, there’s a script. A purpose. A shared rhythm.
But when the final whistle blows?
When the lights come up and everyone scatters?
GET. ME. THE. F***. OUT. OF. THERE.
That’s when the mask slips. That’s when the fear creeps back.
So I’ve learned to cope. To stay invisible without leaving the room. Helpful but never intrusive. Charming but never exposed. Present but never fully seen.
Somewhere along the way, I learned a dangerous lesson: Being “too much” — too emotional, too intense, too ‘big for my britches’, too me — would get me hurt, rejected, or simply ignored.
So I blended in. Became safe. Mastered hiding in plain sight. Human camouflage.
And that lesson? It cost me.
It cost me jobs. Relationships. Creative momentum. The confidence to take up space.
Most of all, it cost me years — years of playing small so I wouldn’t rock the boat. Years of showing up halfway — never too loud, never too real.
And I’m tired. Bone-tired.
Here’s one example:
In December 2019, I landed what I thought was my dream job — copywriting at a creative agency in the New York suburbs.
I showed up eager, curious, ready.
Thirty days later — without a single writing assignment — I was let go.
They said I “wasn’t the right cultural fit.”
Translation? I had hidden too well. I was wallpaper. Forgettable. Unseen. Unremarkable.
It ended up being for the best, but I did NOT take it well that day.
Let’s just say, things got super dark. I strongly considered jumping in front of the 3:15 to Grand Central that unseasonably warm January Friday.
Instead, I got ON the 3:15 — and clearly didn’t do what I thought about.
That terrified me. But it woke me up. Made me realize just how much I’d been shrinking — and how badly I needed to reclaim the parts of me I’d buried.
But the hiding didn’t start there. It started in fifth grade.
That’s when the emotional temperature at home changed. I won’t go into detail, but I felt it. All of it. As a sensitive kid, I internalized the chaos.
My brain made a decision:
Don’t make it worse.
Don’t take up space.
Make people laugh. Be the peacekeeper. Be easy.
So I became a wallflower with a smile.
Even now, I’ll sit alone in a restaurant, intending to talk, but I shrink.
Why?
Because somewhere deep inside, I still hear the whisper: “Don’t be too much.”
I sit alone at the bar, notes app open, pretending to write while TVs cycle hockey highlights I don’t care about. A group of women laugh too loudly nearby. One of them is stunning — not in a performative way — just stunning enough to make me wish I was braver.
But I stay put, scrawling half-thoughts, blending into the hum of clinking forks and fake conversation.
That whisper yells at me everywhere.
It showed up in college, with a girl I’ll call Michelle.
She was kind, soft-spoken, from Gulf Breeze, Florida. Daughter of a high school football coach. She gave me signals. I didn’t know how to receive them. Too far in my head. Too scared of rejection. Too afraid to step forward and risk ruining everything.
If only 18-year-old me could see what 48-year-old me sees.
I want to grab that terrified kid by the shoulders and say, “Bro, she liked you for you. You don’t have to perform!”
I’ll never forget how she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear when we spoke.
Still, I wonder what happened to her.
That same fear shows up in my adult life.
Just recently, a customer at my day job demanded a price match that didn’t make sense. I had to escalate — involving two managers. Even though I followed every protocol and did everything right… I still felt like a burden.
Because that voice never stops:
“You’re asking for too much.”
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“Dammit! You’re being too much.”
That’s what hiding in plain sight does.
You start to believe you shouldn’t be seen. That your needs aren’t convenient. You water yourself down until you lose your flavor.
I’m done with that.
Bryant-Denny Stadium — home of Alabama football — remains one of my favorite places on Earth. In that sea of crimson and white, I belong. I yell, laugh, cry, belt out Yea Alabama, scream “Roll Tide” like it’s a birthright. For a few glorious hours, I’m one face among 100,000 with a shared mission: to hear the Million Dollar Band strike up Rammer Jammer and send the other team packing.
But after the clock hits 0:00 and the crowd scatters, when there’s no script left…
That’s when I have to choose:
Will I keep shrinking?
Or finally show up — fully, vulnerably, unapologetically me?
Why am I sharing this?
Because I know I’m not alone.
Maybe you’ve spent your life walking that tightrope:
Strong but not too strong. Helpful but never a burden. Visible but never loud.
Maybe — like me — you’ve been praised for your adaptability, emotional intelligence, your ability to “read the room.”
But what happens when the room isn’t worth reading anymore?
What happens when you’re ready to stop disappearing?
If you spend your life hiding, you’ll burn out. Shut down. Forget who you are beneath the mask.
Brother — the world needs you. Not the edited version. Not the polite, filtered version. The real you.
So take up space.
Speak with your full voice.
Laugh too loud.
Cry in public.
Be real, even when your hands are shaking.
I’ll leave you with a line from one of my favorite songwriters:
“Be yourself, no matter what they say.” — Sting, Englishman in New York.
If you need a reminder, you’ve got me.
Let’s stop hiding. Let’s show up. Together.
Like an army of authenticity.
One last thing…
I hadn’t thought about Michelle in years until I wrote this.
I sure wish 18-year-old me had known what I know now: Showing up fully is always the better risk. Always.
Be yourself, no matter what they say.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
