Three Squirrels in a Trenchcoat: On Being Perceived as “High Functioning”

I watched a TikTok this morning by a creator called Nasya. She was talking about the frustration and deep grief that comes with being perceived as “high functioning.” And gods, it hit me in the chest. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

There’s this really gross assumption that if you’re articulate, social, or show up, or look like you’re coping, then your neurodivergence must be mild. That you’re fine. That the chaos you live with is manageable because you’re managing it.

But here’s an experience I had with my employer, just this week. For context, I am the only neurodivergent person in my workplace.

I told my team lead at work that “high functioning” (side note: I hate that phrase—it reeks of eugenics and ableist hierarchy) just means that he experiences my autism mildly. Not me. Him.

What he’s seeing is the result of a lifetime of masking, of curated coping strategies, both helpful and incredibly damaging. He sees a woman who shows up and smiles and responds to emails. He doesn’t see the painkillers at 4:30pm, the sensory crash at 8:00pm, or the endless internal fight not to stim, not to scream, not to cry.

He doesn’t hear the squirrels.

I think of my brain and nervous system as three squirrels in an overcoat:

• One is arguing about texture.
• One is screaming about how loud the lights are.
• And the last one is desperately trying to remember the last time they drank literally anything.

And all of them are covered by this illusion of assumed competence. A mask so well-worn I forget it’s there sometimes. But underneath? I’m just hoping no one notices I’m an imposter. That the mask will hold. That I can survive another day without unravelling in public.

Being perceived as high functioning is its own kind of erasure. It invalidates the daily labour of surviving neurodivergence in a neurotypical world. It praises the mask. It rewards burnout. It makes asking for help feel like a betrayal of the image you didn’t even ask to create.

So no, I don’t experience my autism mildly. I experience it loudly, constantly, and often invisibly.

And I’m done pretending that coping is the same as thriving.

If you need me, I’ll be in my trenchcoat, wrangling squirrels and drinking water like it’s a radical act.