Why I Chose to Disclose My AuDHD Diagnosis
By Michelle Labine, PhD
May 2025
Disclosing my AuDHD diagnosis was not a light decision. It came after years of reflection, learning, and slowly untangling parts of myself that I had not fully understood.
For as long as I can remember, I masked. I did not have language for it at the time, but I knew how to study what was expected of me. I watched how others moved through the world and mirrored the behaviours that seemed to make them comfortable. I learned how to say the right thing at the right time, how to smile when I was supposed to smile, and how to appear composed even when something inside me felt like it was falling apart. Over time I became highly attuned to the needs and emotions of others, placing their comfort above my own. I pushed my feelings aside again and again until they eventually erupted, a pattern that followed me through many relationships across my life. I learned to keep going no matter how overwhelmed I felt, pushing through until I inevitably reached a wall.
Masking was not something I consciously chose. Looking back, it’s clear to see, it was the way I moved through the world. It felt automatic, almost instinctive, and I cannot remember a time when it was not there. I believed that in order to belong I needed to be agreeable, capable, and composed at all times. Beneath that effort lived a quiet but persistent belief that I was not quite enough, that I needed to earn my place, prove my worth, and make sure the cracks never showed.
It took years of reflection and therapeutic support before I could begin to see where the adaptation ended and my true self began. Like many late diagnosed Autistic and ADHD women, I became so practiced that I eventually lost sight of the person underneath the mask. There are still days when I notice myself slipping back into those patterns.
One of the hardest truths I had to face in my healing was realizing that masking is, at its core, a form of performance, and that for much of my life I had been performing in order to survive.
Masking slowly eroded my sense of self. It strained my nervous system and chipped away at my self worth. The very things I longed for most, authentic connection and a sense of belonging, remained just out of reach. The mask that once helped me navigate the world had gradually become a barrier between me and the life I was hoping to build.
When people talk about diagnosis, it is often framed as a clear before and after. There is some truth to that idea, but what is rarely acknowledged is everything that happens in the middle. I want to honour that middle space, because that is where much of the real healing takes place.
My diagnosis unfolded slowly over many years. It involved unraveling old stories and internalized beliefs about who I was supposed to be. It involved noticing patterns that had once felt like failures and beginning to see them instead as ways I had developed to cope.
The messy years were filled with curiosity and hesitation. There were periods of deep reading and learning, followed by moments when the material felt too close or too overwhelming and I needed to step back. There were times when I circled back to questions I had asked before, pulling at threads that had never quite made sense until eventually they began to form a clearer picture.
In many ways my diagnosis was a decade in the making, built on a lifetime of wondering why I often felt slightly out of step with the world around me. When the diagnosis finally came it validated something I had been slowly discovering within myself and invited me to face the beliefs I had carried for so long about who I was supposed to be. That clarity brought with it a sense of responsibility.
Eventually, I made the decision I no longer wanted to conform in ways that required me to hide. I chose not to let fear dictate how visible I was willing to be. I chose to speak openly because silence around neurodivergence, especially among women and girls, has allowed too many people to feel alone in experiences that are far more common than we once believed.
For me, disclosing my diagnosis became an act of self-acceptance. It was also connected to a broader sense of justice for the countless people who came before us and were misunderstood, mislabeled, institutionalized, or erased within systems that did not recognize neurodivergent lives as valuable.
At the same time, I want to be very clear that disclosure is not a path that is available or safe for everyone. For some people it can be empowering, while for others it carries real risks. Disclosure can affect employment, housing, relationships, or personal safety, particularly for individuals who are racialized, trans, gender diverse, multiply disabled, or living without strong support systems.
Because of that reality, it is important to say clearly that disclosure is not a requirement for authenticity. Your identity and your story remain valid whether they are spoken publicly or held privately. Choosing not to disclose can be an act of self-preservation and wisdom, and that choice deserves respect.
I recognize that I hold a degree of relative safety in being able to share my experience openly. As a white, educated, cisgender professional, self-employed, with access to healthcare and supportive networks, the consequences of my disclosure are unlikely to threaten my basic stability. I am aware that this is not the case for everyone.
My decision to speak publicly is simply one way of using the position I occupy to advocate for change. Until disclosure is safe for everyone, the work of creating understanding and acceptance remains unfinished.