A therapist’s field notes from the front lines of late-diagnosed brilliance
Picture this: You’re sitting across from someone who’s just discovered they’re autistic at forty-two. They’ve built a career, raised kids, maybe even written a few books. But underneath that carefully constructed life? A person who’s been using work—or avoiding it entirely—like a bloody sophisticated emotional shield.
I see this dance every week in my online practice. Highly-masked, gifted adults who’ve spent decades perfecting the art of looking neurotypical while their brains are quietly screaming, “This isn’t how we’re supposed to work.”
Work becomes the perfect hiding place. Or, conversely, the perfect thing to hide from.
Here’s what I’ve learned from countless conversations in my slightly chaotic home office in Đà Lạt (yes, the irony of a therapist working from Vietnam while treating people worldwide isn’t lost on me): We’re not lazy. We’re not broken. We’re just possibly delusional enough to think we can outrun our own nervous systems.
Spoiler alert: You can’t.
The beautiful mess of neurodivergent survival
Before we dive into the seven realities people avoid, let’s get something straight. Using work as a coping mechanism isn’t a character flaw—it’s bloody brilliant adaptation. Your brain figured out how to survive in a world that wasn’t designed for how you process information, emotions, and sensory input.
The problem? Survival strategies that work at twenty often become prison cells at forty.
1. The great emotional fortress (or: why feelings are terrifying when you’re “too much”)
What’s happening: You’ve learned that emotions are dangerous territory. Too big, too much, too inconvenient for everyone else. So work becomes your emotional fortress—a place where logic reigns and feelings can be safely ignored.
The neurodivergent brain often experiences emotions like a vintage amplifier with the volume stuck on eleven. When you’re already managing sensory overload, social confusion, and executive function challenges, adding intense emotions to the mix feels like juggling flaming chainsaws while riding a unicycle.
Why this matters: Emotions don’t disappear when ignored—they just get creative. They’ll show up as mysterious physical symptoms, sudden rage at inanimate objects, or that peculiar phenomenon where you cry at sport commercials but feel nothing when your actual life falls apart.
The gentle approach: Start ridiculously small. Notice one emotion for thirty seconds without trying to fix, change, or analyse it. Just sayin’—awareness doesn’t require action.
Pro tip from the therapy trenches: Keep an “emotion log” that’s just weather reports. “Today feels like a thunderstorm with scattered anxiety.” No analysis required.
2. The sensory survival game (when your nervous system has opinions)
What’s happening: Your sensory system is like a high-maintenance friend who has opinions about everything—the lighting, the texture of your clothes, the sound of people chewing. Work either provides blessed predictability or becomes another sensory nightmare to avoid.
I once had a client describe their office as “sensory soup”—fluorescent lights that buzz like angry bees, colleagues who microwave fish, and an airconditioning system that sounds like it’s plotting revenge. For some, work provides structure that helps manage sensory chaos. For others, it’s the chaos itself.
Why this matters: Ignoring sensory needs is like trying to concentrate while someone plays bagpipes in your ear. Possible? Maybe. Sustainable? Absolutely not.
The gentle approach: Become a sensory detective. Notice what makes your nervous system happy (soft lighting, specific textures, certain sounds) and what makes it revolt. No judgment—just data.
Practical magic: Create a “sensory first aid kit” for work. Noise-cancelling headphones, a soft scarf, fidget tools, essential oils. Your nervous system will thank you.
3. The social exhaustion tango (masking is bloody tiring)
What’s happening: Social interaction for the highly masked feels like performing Shakespeare while translating ancient Greek—exhausting and requiring enormous concentration. Work either provides safe, structured social interaction or becomes something to avoid when the social battery is at less than 1%.
The thing about masking is that it’s invisible labour. You’re constantly translating neurotypical social rules, managing your natural responses, and performing “appropriate” behaviour. It’s like being a method actor who never gets to break character.
Why this matters: Chronic masking leads to what some call “identity confusion”—you become so good at being what others expect that you forget who you actually are underneath all that performance.
The gentle approach: Find your “minimum viable social dose.” Maybe it’s one meaningful text exchange, maybe it’s fifteen minutes of small talk. Honour what you can handle without guilt.
Reality check: Some days your social capacity is a thimble. Other days it’s a bucket. Both are valid.
4. The great identity question mark (who am I when nobody’s watching?)
What’s happening: Work becomes a convenient way to avoid those uncomfortable existential questions that tend to surface during quiet moments. Who are you beyond your achievements? What do you actually want from life? What matters when the to-do list is empty?
For late-diagnosed adults, these questions carry extra weight. Years of masking often mean you’ve lost touch with your authentic preferences, needs, and desires. Work provides external validation and a clear sense of purpose that feels safer than exploring the beautiful mess of your inner world.
Why this matters: Avoiding existential questions is like trying to navigate with someone else’s map. You might end up somewhere, but it probably won’t be where you actually wanted to go.
The gentle approach: Start with tiny questions. “What do I actually enjoy eating when no one else is around?” “What does my body want to do right now?” “What would I choose if there were no wrong answers?”
Philosophical note: The goal isn’t to find yourself—it’s to create yourself, one small choice at a time.
5. The perfectionism prison (when good enough feels like failure)
What’s happening: Years of masking often create sky-high standards for performance. Work becomes either a way to prove your worth through achievement or something to avoid when the fear of falling short feels overwhelming.
The neurodivergent brain often operates in extremes—brilliant insights followed by executive function meltdowns, hyperfocus marathons followed by complete mental paralysis. When your performance feels unpredictable, perfectionism becomes a way to feel in control.
Why this matters: Perfectionism is procrastination’s evil twin. Both keep you stuck, just with different stories about why you can’t move forward.
The gentle approach: Practice what I call “good enough experiments.” Set a timer for twenty minutes and see what you can accomplish without editing, revising, or making it perfect. The goal is progress, not perfection.
‘Possibly delusional but charmingly so‘ insight: Your “good enough” is probably someone else’s “bloody brilliant.”
6. The loneliness labyrinth (when isolation feels safer than connection)
What’s happening: Work fills the silence and masks the profound loneliness that many highly masked adults carry. When you’ve spent years feeling misunderstood or “different,” solitary work can feel safer than risking more social rejection.
But here’s the cruel irony: avoiding work can deepen isolation by cutting off one of the few socially acceptable ways to connect with others. It’s a double bind that keeps you trapped in loneliness while yearning for genuine connection.
Why this matters: Isolation isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s genuinely dangerous for mental and physical health. Humans are wired for connection, even those of us who find social interaction exhausting.
The gentle approach: Look for neurodivergent-friendly spaces where you can be authentic without performing neurotypicality. Online communities, support groups, or even casual conversations with people who “get it” can break the isolation cycle.
Hard truth: Loneliness often masquerades as a preference for solitude. Both are valid, but it’s worth getting curious about which is which.
7. The burnout carousel (the push-pull cycle that never ends)
What’s happening: This is the big one—the pattern I see most often (and very often in my bathroom mirror). Intense periods of overwork followed by complete crashes into avoidance or exhaustion. Both extremes are coping strategies designed to manage an unmanageable load.
You work frantically to prove your worth, manage your anxiety, or simply because hyperfocus has hijacked your executive function. Then your nervous system rebels, and you swing into complete avoidance to recover. Rinse, repeat, wonder why you can’t find a sustainable middle ground.
Why this matters: The burnout carousel doesn’t just exhaust you—it reinforces the belief that you’re either “on” or “off,” productive or useless, worthy or worthless. There’s no space for the messy middle where most of life actually happens.
The gentle approach: Learn to recognise your early warning signs—irritability, sleep disruption, that peculiar feeling that your skin doesn’t fit properly. Respect these signals instead of pushing through them.
Practical rebellion: Schedule rest like you schedule meetings. Your burnout recovery time is not negotiable—it’s essential maintenance.
The complex dance of survival
Here’s what I want you to understand: moving between workaholism and avoidance isn’t a moral failing. Both are sophisticated adaptations to a world that often feels overwhelming, unpredictable, and hostile to your way of being.
Your brain has been working overtime to keep you safe, functioning, and socially acceptable. The fact that you’ve made it this far while managing an invisible neurological difference is remarkable.
But—and this is important—survival strategies have expiration dates. What served you in your twenties might be suffocating you in your forties.
The path forward (spoiler: it’s not a straight line)
Recovery from chronic work patterns isn’t about finding the perfect balance or developing superhuman discipline. It’s about developing a curious, compassionate relationship with your own patterns and needs.
Start by noticing without changing. What triggers your work binges? What sends you into avoidance spirals? What does your nervous system need to feel safe?
The goal isn’t to eliminate these patterns entirely—it’s to dance with them more consciously. Sometimes you’ll need the structure and external validation that work provides. Sometimes you’ll need to retreat and recharge.
The difference is choice. When you understand what you’re avoiding and why, you can start making intentional decisions about when to engage and when to step back.
A final thought from my virtual couch
Sitting in my office, watching brilliant people untangle decades of masking and adaptation, I’m struck by something: the strategies that once protected you also shaped you. Your hypersensitivity to others’ needs made you empathetic. Your pattern recognition abilities made you insightful. Your need to understand systems made you wise.
You’re not broken and waiting to be fixed. You’re complex and learning to thrive.
And sometimes, being possibly delusional about your capacity for growth is exactly the kind of delusion the world needs more of.
Just sayin’.
Lee Hopkins is a counselling psychologist, published author, and reformed academic who specialises in working with highly masked gifted adults and those diagnosed later in life with autism or ADHD. He practices from Đà Lạt, Vietnam, where he thinks seriously about naming his next two intellectually unintimidating Yellow Labradors ‘Tissot’ and ‘Rolex’.
Because he wants them to be watch dogs.
