Sometimes, the version of me who’s praised for clarity and competence is the same one who collapses later behind closed doors, drained from holding it all together.
I’m a dad. I’m a husband. I’m also a high-functioning neurodivergent human who can laser-focus so intensely that the world fades away — until the smallest interruption detonates my mood like a tripwire.
It’s a double life. One where I can look like the embodiment of control and insight at work, yet come home and feel completely incapable of being present for the people I love most.
High Performance as Armour
For me, high performance is a suit of armour.
It’s protection. It’s proof. It’s the way I silence the inner voice whispering that if I’m not exceptional, I might be exposed as unreliable or incompetent.
When I’m locked onto a task — when my mind is crackling with ideas, flowing like a river in flood — I feel invincible. I’m desperate to keep that current going, because it’s the only time I feel ahead of the chaos that’s usually swirling behind me.
But the truth is, the armour is heavy. And some days, it’s the only thing holding me upright.
The Cost of Borrowed Currency
All that polish and precision? It comes at a price.
Every moment of hyperfocus is like spending borrowed currency — energy I’m pulling from tomorrow’s reserves.
My kids will wander into my office wanting to show me a Lego creation or tell me the latest convoluted tale from school. And instead of the dad I want to be — playful, patient, fully there — they get a man whose mind is still chained to the problem I was trying to solve.
That’s the cruel irony. The success that feels so vital to my self-esteem is often what steals the energy I want to spend on my family.
And when the adrenaline wears off, the crash comes. It’s not always visible — but the exhaustion, the irritability, the shame for snapping at my kids or zoning out during dinner? That’s real.
Loving the Mask, Not the Man
Here’s the hardest part to admit:
When you’re high-functioning, people get used to the mask.
They love the capable, articulate, problem-solver version of me. The dad who’s funny and switched-on. The partner who’s insightful and reliable.
But sometimes I wonder: do they love me… or just the performance?
When the mask slips — when I’m distracted, grumpy, short-tempered — I worry that I’m letting everyone down. That they’ll see I’m not the perfect man behind the curtain, just an anxious bloke trying desperately to stay on top of his own brain.
So I retreat. I mask harder. I pretend I’m okay. And it pushes me further away from the people I’m doing all this for.
Conclusion: High-Functioning Isn’t Healing
I’m learning something important: high-functioning isn’t the same as healing.
The armour might win me praise. The mask might keep people comfortable. But neither makes me feel truly safe.
I want my kids and my wife to know all sides of me — the clever parts and the chaotic parts. The times I’m on fire with ideas and the times I’m falling apart.
Because real relational safety isn’t about perfection. It’s about being allowed to be both capable and cared for — even when I drop the mask.
And I suspect I’m not alone in wanting that.