High Functioning: The Hidden Cost of Holding It Together

Hi, I’m Kate. I’m a science teacher, science consultant, and a neurodivergent human figuring out how to function in a world that rewards the mask more than the person wearing it. This one’s not polished. It’s not a tidy life lesson. It’s just the truth, mine, and maybe yours too.

I call myself high functioning.

It sounds clinical, maybe even proud, but it’s not a flex. It’s a survival status. It’s the phrase I use to explain why I’m showing up, getting things done, checking the boxes, while privately feeling like I’m seconds away from a collapse no one will see coming.

I started a new job in September, as a teacher, colleagues have commented how well I have done in my first year. How organised I am. How on top of things I am. How chilled I come across. This is not the first time I have been described this way. Previously I’ve been described as focused, efficient, composed. And yeah, sometimes I am. But most the time, those words are compliments for the mask I’ve spent years perfecting.

Because here’s the truth: being high functioning with ADHD and PTSD doesn’t mean I’m fine. It means I’ve learned how to look fine, convincingly enough that most people stop asking questions.

And I got really good at that, because for years, I didn’t know I had ADHD or PTSD. I just thought I was broken.

So I masked. Hard. I forced myself to be competent, composed, capable, because I was terrified someone would see the mess underneath. I thought if I couldn’t keep up, I’d fall apart. And if I fell apart, everyone would know I didn’t belong.

That’s the cruel irony of it all. High functioning isn’t just the story other people believe. It’s the lie I’ve told myself over and over again.

If I can keep going, I must be okay. Right?
If I can teach, write, organise, plan, hold it all together, then surely I’m not falling apart. Right?

Right?

The Invisible Cost of Looking Okay

Being high functioning means I’m often praised while I’m quietly unraveling. I hit deadlines while ignoring my own needs. I respond to messages while fighting the urge to disappear. I keep up appearances, even when my body is in full threat-response mode and my brain is bouncing between hyperfocus and total shutdown.

People see the functioning. They don’t see the cost. And most definitely do not see the utter chaos.

They see the output, the calm exterior. They don’t see the panic attack I had in a restaurant toilet last night. I was supposed to be enjoying myself, laughing, eating, being “normal”. Instead, I was crouched in a stall, trying to remember how to breathe, wondering what triggered it this time.

ADHD and PTSD: The Chaos Combo

ADHD makes it hard to start things, finish things, remember things. The middle though, I am great at that! However, it also gives me bursts of creativity, hyperfocus, and ingenuity that can be impressive until they burn me out.

PTSD makes me ultra-aware, hypervigilant, and emotionally reactive. I’m constantly scanning for danger, even when I’m writing emails or teaching a class. And lately, that’s been dialed way up.

I’ve been more triggered than usual. Not just small spikes, but deep, full-body responses that leave me drained and dissociated.

Both of these are massively impacted by structure. The last week the Year 10s have been out and year 11s are long done, which means my routine is shot. No rhythm, no scaffolding, just big empty spaces where my brain spirals in the silence. (And maybe a fair bit of chatting shit with my colleagues)

Which is funny, because I used to think I hated routine. Turns out, I need it like oxygen.

The Real Meaning of “High Functioning”

To me, high functioning means I can perform at a high level, but it doesn’t mean I’m doing well. It means I’ve learned how to override my needs. To push through instead of pause. To get it done, no matter the personal cost.

It’s not a compliment. It’s camouflage.
It’s not strength. It’s a strategy.
It’s not who I am. It’s who I’ve had to be.

Being high functioning essentially means I live on the edge of constant burnout. It is a risky way to live.

But here’s the other truth: that same high functioning, the one that came from masking, fear, and survival? It also got me a degree. A master’s. A PhD. A PGCE. All while ~~thinking~~ being broken. All while believing I had to keep everything hidden.

I could have crumbled. Given up. But I didn’t. I kept going. And despite the cost, that persistence built something real.

Why I’m Writing This

Because maybe you’ve felt this too. Maybe you’ve been told you’re “so capable” while you’re silently screaming. Maybe you’ve been praised for your productivity when what you really needed was permission to rest. Maybe you’ve been labeled “resilient” so many times you’ve started to think asking for help is weakness.

I don’t have all the answers. But I do have this space. And I want it to be honest. Not polished. Not performative. Just real.

So here it is. I am high functioning. And sometimes, I am not fine. But thats okay.

Let me know if you feel the same. Or if you disagree. I want to know.