The hidden cost of “high functioning” at work
When I worked as a consultant, there were multiple occasions where I told colleagues—including senior ones—that I was struggling. I wasn’t vague or hinting; I was quite direct. I said I was finding things hard, that I felt overwhelmed. And the response, more often than not, was something like: “You seem fine,” or “You’re doing really well,” or “Your work is great, so don’t worry.” And that was that.
At the time, I remember feeling a bit gaslit by it, although I wouldn’t have used that word then. It was confusing—because I didn’t feel fine. But they weren’t wrong, exactly. My work was good. I was hitting deadlines, showing up to meetings, saying coherent things.
This is one of the strange and exhausting realities of being autistic at work, especially if you’re what people would call “high functioning.” (Not my favourite phrase, but let’s go with it for now.) It’s that your competence masks your distress. The very skills that help you survive—masking, mimicking, meticulous preparation—are the same ones that make it nearly impossible for others to see when you’re struggling. And that can leave you stuck, unsupported, and silently burning out.
The performance of capability
At work, I’ve always been able to perform competence. I meet deadlines, I write clearly, I present well, I respond to messages in a friendly, professional tone. What people don’t see is what it costs me to do that. The script I’ve rehearsed, the energy it takes to mask confusion or overstimulation, the hours of overthinking what I write or say.There have been times when I’ve delivered a great piece of work, then spent the entire evening crying from the overwhelm. Or where I’ve led a meeting smoothly, then needed hours alone just to recover from the strain of it
Capability doesn’t cancel out needs
The problem is that the more you appear capable, the harder it is to ask for help. People assume you don’t need support if you’re doing a good job. And when you’ve been praised for how well you’re coping, it feels like you’d be letting people down by admitting that actually, you’re not.
For a long time, I didn’t even know I could ask for help. I didn’t have the language to explain why certain things were hard for me. I thought I was just bad at life. Or that I was overreacting. That I could “get over it” if I just kept trying.
It wasn’t until I was diagnosed as autistic that the pieces started to fit together. The sensory overload, the anxiety, the emotional crashes, the need for routine—they weren’t character flaws. They were real, and valid, and deserving of support.
The impact of masking
One of the hardest things about being seen as “high functioning” is that it encourages you to keep masking, even when it’s making you unwell. I’ve stayed in roles longer than I should have because I didn’t want to admit I was struggling. I’ve said yes to things that completely drained me because I felt like I had something to prove.
The irony is, I don’t think anyone expected or needed me to do all of those things.
What I wish people understood
I wish there was more awareness that competence and struggle can coexist. That someone might be performing really well while privately dealing with intense anxiety or burnout. That just because I can do something, doesn’t mean it’s sustainable for me to do it all the time.
I also wish it felt easier to be honest. Because even now, I still hesitate. I still want to be the version of me that everyone praises. But I’ve learned (and am still learning) that acknowledging my needs doesn’t make me any less capable. It just makes me human.
Reframing support
These days, I try to be more open about what I need. I use my reasonable adjustments. I take breaks when I notice the early signs of overwhelm. I’m more selective about what I say yes to. And when someone says, “You’re doing so well,” I try to take it as a compliment—but I also hold space for the effort it took to get there.
July 2025
