This post is part of the “Practical Unmasking” series, where I explore how unmasking shows up in real life, from everyday choices to big life transitions. You’ll find a mix of personal reflections, guest perspectives, and tools rooted in Acceptance and Commitment Coaching and the SAFE Unmasking™ process. While many posts reflect neurodivergent and trauma-informed perspectives, the insights can apply broadly. Wherever you are in your journey, I hope you’ll find something here that supports you.
To read the first post in this series, learn all about masking, and why we all do it, click the button below.
To catch up on the previous post in the Practical Unmasking series, “Practical Unmasking: Productivity,” click the button below.
[Practical Unmasking: Birthdays]
I recently read a post by
on For the Birds about her experience at a poetry event where she explored what it feels like to be perceived in public places as an autistic. Her reflections immediately reminded me of my own experiences of being perceived, especially during birthday celebrations.I’d recently turned 50, and many ideas were swirling in my head. I commented on her post, sharing some reflections about my experiences, and received feedback from her that I found valuable. It reminded me how many of us quietly navigate moments like these, trying to figure out what feels right and what doesn’t. I was motivated by that exchange to share my reflections here as part of my Practical Unmasking series.
Unmasking can take many forms. Sometimes it shows up in small, specific moments within a single relationship. Other times, it becomes more visible across the broader patterns of how we live, connect, and protect ourselves. Birthdays are a good example of both. They can highlight the pressure to perform in a certain way, but they can also create space to choose something different.
For me, birthdays have often been times when masking feels especially intense. Turning 50 made that even clearer. I spent months reflecting on what this milestone meant, how people expected me to celebrate, and how much time and energy I’ve spent over the years trying to meet those expectations instead of honoring what I actually need. This birthday became an opportunity to do things differently and begin unmasking in a more intentional way.
“Are you having a party?”
Back in January, my family started asking how I was going to celebrate. Turning 50 is a milestone, after all. Their suggestions were full of enthusiasm. “Big party, right? Something special!” I just said, “No.” They looked at me like I was speaking a different language. Maybe, in a way, I was. After 15 years in Mexico, my Spanish is still a work in progress, but this wasn’t about vocabulary. It was a different kind of miscommunication. Something more personal than words.
A few months earlier, I had put together a document to help people understand my autism diagnosis. It included things like my sensory needs, the boundaries I was learning to hold, and why certain social situations are hard for me. I sent it to close friends and family. This post isn’t really about that document, but it’s part of the context.
In that document, I gave specific examples, like how uninvited soft touch is difficult for me. I can greet people in socially expected ways, such as handshakes, hugs, or cheek kisses. Sudden contact, like someone putting a hand on my shoulder or brushing something off my face without asking, can throw off my entire system. I also wrote about how transitions are hard for me, how I tend to avoid certain situations, and how difficult it is when people tell me what to do or pressure me into things I don’t want to do. All of this connects to how I experience birthdays.
I got a variety of responses from sharing that document, mostly positive. One response I received stays with me. Someone said something to the effect of, “You must be patient with us, Mark. This is new.” I understood. I believed they meant well. The document was long and probably overwhelming. Most people had a lot going on and may not have had the time or capacity to take in everything I shared. It was a lot to absorb and apply. All of that is true.
What’s also true, and something I haven’t known how to express until now, is the kind of patience I’ve had to extend to others for most of my life. My neurodivergence means I often recognize patterns long before others do. I can see connections and anticipate outcomes that others might miss. But instead of curiosity or openness, I’m often met with doubt, dismissal, or even frustration. People’s emotional attachments to certain beliefs or narratives can make it hard for them to accept information that challenges their worldview. I’ve watched people shut down or get upset, not because I was wrong, but because they couldn’t process what I was saying. That emotional resistance limits what they’re able to see, and when they can’t follow, they sometimes take it out on me. Their discomfort becomes my burden to manage.
That’s the patience I’ve had. It’s not small. It’s not passive. It’s exhausting. And it’s real. So yes, I heard that response. It stayed with me because I’ve spent most of my life being patient with others, often at a significant cost to myself.
That kind of patience, the quiet work of managing my own needs alongside others, shows up every year in how I approach birthdays. Each celebration carries layers of hope, expectation, and effort that can feel overwhelming. Over time, I realized that celebrating wasn’t just about marking the day. It became a complex performance shaped by my desire to be seen and accepted. This made me look closely at how I hosted those moments, what I gave, what I masked, and what it cost me.
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Hosting as a Form of Masking
For years, I hosted holiday parties, birthday dinners, and gatherings that people looked forward to. I was a top-notch host and people often complimented me. What they didn’t see was how it impacted me. I’ve worked in service and hospitality, and I genuinely enjoy creating meaningful experiences for others. Hosting became an extension of that skill set. I approached it from a technical standpoint more than an emotional one. I paid close attention to lighting, music, food, seating, entertainment, and maximizing circulation patterns. I considered emotional needs as part of the equation, sure, but they weren’t what motivated me. What drove me was the belief that if I could create something flawless, people might see my value. Maybe, if the experience was good enough, I would be good enough too.
I frequently pulled my husband into the dynamic, poor guy. I directed him during parties, asking him to do things to make sure everyone had a good time. He often had to remind me that I wasn’t his manager at the nightclub.
My traumas made it clear that being authentic wasn’t often accepted or enough. So, I poured myself into planning and precision. I believed that if I made everyone happy, I might feel okay too. Others saw kindness, flexibility, and a desire to serve. What they didn’t see was the fear and shame beneath my mask. They thought I wanted to host because I loved it, and in some ways I did, but not when it was tied to guilt, anxiety, or the pressure to perform. Even when everything went smoothly, I felt a deep sense of depletion. When people made last-minute requests or unknowingly disrupted the flow I had worked so hard to create, it was difficult. No one noticed what went unused or unseen. I was left wondering whether the parts I had planned might have worked, or whether anyone would have cared if they knew. After guests left, I would feel completely drained and need time to recover. Yet by the time the next event came around, I would push that memory aside and dive back in.
The pandemic gave me a reason to stop, and my diagnosis gave me the clarity to stay stopped, at least in the way I had been hosting before. I still enjoy having people over and hosting events, but with a new perspective. Without the pressures, hosting can be genuinely enjoyable. I’ve learned that I don’t need to overextend myself to show I care, nor perform joy to deserve connection. I’m still practicing this. Sometimes I forget and slip back into old patterns. When I realize I’m acting from a place of care rather than fear, I know I’m moving forward. That, too, is worth honoring. True joy in hosting comes not from perfection, but from creating a space where everyone can simply be themselves, including me.
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What Happens on Birthdays
The dynamic of hosting and the pressure I once felt is especially clear to me when I think about birthdays. Birthdays bring everything into focus: the expectations, the interactions, and the effort to make others happy. Here’s what a “typical” birthday celebration at a restaurant looks like for me.
People arrive in waves. No one shows up at the same time, so each time someone new arrives, I rise to greet each person, offering a kiss on the cheek, a handshake, or a hug—sometimes a longer hug if they’re family. I’m used to it, though it takes a lot out of me at the start. We settle in for the meal: talking, eating, and reconnecting with people I haven’t seen in a few weeks or longer. Everyone wants a moment in between bites of food. Everyone wants a connection. I scan the table, read faces, and try to stay present. I try to make sure everyone is getting what they came for.
In this context, it feels like I am responsible for their happiness. They are here to celebrate me, but often it feels like I have to make sure they enjoy the celebration. That weight causes me to start second-guessing everything. Am I giving enough attention? Smiling the right way? Is this meaningful to them? Someone is bound to put their hand on my knee or shoulder during small talk. The touch is uncomfortable and makes it hard to process anything. I find a way to move away without making it obvious.
Then comes the part I dread most: the “Happy Birthday” performance. You know that moment in restaurants when the staff brings out cake, starts singing, and puts a ridiculous hat on your head? People love it. They clap for strangers and think it’s fun. But for me, it’s awful. In a lot of places, they don’t even ask. They just bring over the hat, some recycled prop that’s been worn by hundreds of people, and place it on your head without consent. I don’t know where it’s been or if it’s clean. For someone like me, who experiences OCD-like tendencies, this is a nightmare. I’m always washing my hands and constantly changing clothes. That hat is a sensory and emotional violation.
Then the singing starts. Everyone turns to look at you. Where I live, this is the moment when people push children in front of you or place them on your lap for the pictures. I don’t understand why this occurs, and it’s overstimulating.
I didn’t ask for any of it. Everyone thinks I want it.
While all this is happening, people are taking photos and recording video, capturing every second. This makes the performance feel even more important to get right. I sit there while people sing AT me, watching their big, supportive smiles. They think they’re giving me this beautiful moment that I am enjoying. What I’m really doing is managing my face.
Am I smiling enough?
Do I look thankful?
Am I performing the right amount of joy?
None of it feels joyful for me. Most people assume I enjoy these traditions. Why wouldn’t they if I never told them otherwise? They believe I’m outgoing and that I thrive on attention. What they’re seeing is a carefully constructed blend of humor, empathy, and social awareness. These are tools I’ve used to mask my discomfort. I rely on them to manage situations that feel unsafe or unpredictable. On the inside, I’m often just trying to make it through without shutting down.
And the birthday performance? It’s too much.
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Choosing Myself Over Performance
I’ve always struggled with receiving, whether it’s gifts, attention, care, or effort. I learned early on that gifts often come with expectations. When someone gives me something, I feel pressure to respond with the exact reaction they’re hoping for. If I don’t, things can get awkward, sometimes worse. When people try to celebrate me, I usually fall into survival mode. I work hard to mirror what others want to see, and that leaves very little space for how I actually feel. I’ve come to realize this reaction is rooted in childhood trauma, and while it is a projection, the feelings remain very real and hard to ignore.
I learned at a young age to stay safe by reading what others needed from me and giving it to them, often at the expense of my own feelings. In the past, my birthdays followed that same pattern. I managed other people’s expectations while disconnecting from my own needs.
This year, I chose something different. I wanted to love myself in a quiet, low-key way. And for my 50th, that’s exactly what I did.
A few weeks before my birthday, I told my husband that anyone who asked about birthday plans or wanted to celebrate me could redirect that energy toward something meaningful: helping me fund some tattoos I’d been wanting for a while. It worked. I was gifted enough for two sessions and got four new tattoos. One of them is an ampersand on my hand, a reminder that there is always more than one truth, more than one way. Another one celebrates something I’m still learning to practice: it is OK to say “no” to people in order to protect my autonomy. Thanks to everyone who contributed. It made me very happy.
On the actual day, I got some birthday texts from loved ones, and that was enough. I wasn’t interested in public posts, events, or the pressure that comes with performing for others. My husband and I spent a calm, sweet day together. We went to a breakfast buffet that was nearly empty. The server brought a birthday dessert with a sparkler on her own when the manager found out it was my birthday. They didn’t sing, thank God. The server insisted on taking a picture. I combined it with a cat meme about disliking it when people sing happy birthday. It was all manageable and, for the most part, enjoyable.
On the way back, we visited a market I hadn’t been to before but always wanted to visit. When I got home, I took a nice nap. That evening, we took a long walk and had Arab tacos for dinner. Back at home, we finished the night watching an episode of a series we had started. It was simple, quiet, and just right. It was me, my husband, our cats, and the comfort of being myself. I didn’t have to worry if I was smiling enough or being grateful enough. I didn’t have to manage anyone else’s emotions. I didn’t have to host, post, perform, or mask.
What I’m Learning
This was the first time in a long time I truly enjoyed my birthday. I’m not saying I’ll never celebrate with others again. I know pendulums swing wide when you first start honoring your needs after years of ignoring them. Things might shift in the future. For now, I’m okay with things being different. I’m learning to unmask what I actually want on my birthday. I’m practicing saying no. I’m learning to listen to myself and trust what I hear.
It’s not easy. Sometimes people push back without realizing it. They mean well and want to make me happy, but they rely on traditions that don’t reflect what I actually need. I’m learning to hold my ground, and my husband helps with that. When people question our plans, he backs me up, and that means a lot. He supports this new way I practice self-love: by listening to my needs, standing firm in my boundaries, and honoring what feels right to me, even if it looks different to others. I am very lucky.
This year, for the first time in a very long time, I felt good on my birthday because I did it my way. I think we all deserve the chance to celebrate in ways that feel true to who we are.
What’s Your Relationship with Birthdays?
If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear about your own birthday experiences. Feel free to share them in the comments.
How do you show up differently for others than you do for yourself?
In what ways might you be masking your true feelings or needs during celebrations or even everyday moments?
Have you ever felt pressure to perform a certain way on your birthday or on other special occasions? What did that feel like?
What might it look like for you to honor your needs more fully, even if it feels uncomfortable or unfamiliar?
To read the next post in this series, ‘Practical Unmasking: Truth and Deception’ click the button below.
Free unmasking resources on my website
If this post spoke to you, I invite you to visit my website where you can download free, practical guides designed to support your unmasking journey and deepen your understanding of neurodivergence. These resources are created with care for late-diagnosed autistic and ADHD adults, their allies, and anyone seeking compassionate tools to live more authentically.
Explore the full collection of PDFs, grounded in lived experience and the SAFE Unmasking™ and Acceptance and Commitment Coaching frameworks. Whether you’re starting out or looking for fresh insights, these guides offer clear, gentle support to help you build what lasts and live with greater clarity and confidence.
Here’s a glimpse of what you’ll find:
Meltdowns: A Guide for Autistics & Allies: Break down what happens before, during, and after meltdowns. Learn how to reduce shame, recognize triggers, and respond with empathy whether you’re autistic or supporting someone who is.
How To Support SAFE Unmasking™: A quick-start resource for allies of late-diagnosed autistic adults. Discover how to create safe spaces, offer compassionate support, and respect the pace of unmasking without pressure or judgment.
Finding SAFE Unmasking™ Spaces: Practical strategies to identify and create environments where you feel comfortable being your authentic self. Explore ways to build emotional, physical, and social safety that honor your needs.
The Value of SAFE Unmasking™: A guide for newly diagnosed autistic adults navigating their journey. Learn why unmasking matters, how it can improve your well-being, and how to take small steps toward living more authentically on your terms.
This is about what works for you. Honor what helps, and set the rest aside.
Click the button below to get your free guides and start exploring.
This has been educating. Your parties were so good that never ocurred to me that it was part of masking. Makes me wonder about other people's wishes for similar occasions. Happy birthday, anyway. You are loved with or without parties. I guess been confortable in your own skin is always a big milestone. Loved the spanish meme, btw.
I feel so much of this. My friends growing up were often those who's families didn't have money for giving gifts, and I was perfectly fine with that. I prefer to give than to receive, because receiving came with pressure. I love to give gifts that are carefully curated for the recipient. I love giving homemade gifts because to me it means more. I plan my own birthdays, and have for years, because I'd rather do what I want than what someone else thinks I should.
I used to host for the holidays and I loved it at the same time I hated it. I did it because I didn't want to have to run around or choose which family I saw for the holiday. It was exhausting and would take me days to recover from.