Masking is often described as “pretending to be neurotypical,” as if autistic people are performing or being inauthentic.
That framing misses what masking really is.
In my Psychology Today article “Masking as an Evolutionary Advantage,” I approach masking as adaptation — what happens when a nervous system learns that being visibly different carries social risk.
Humans evolved in small, interdependent groups. Belonging meant access to food, protection, shared knowledge, and safety. Being excluded meant vulnerability. In that world, standing out was never neutral. It attracted attention. And attention could mean danger.
For autistic people — whose movements, speech, timing, and sensory responses naturally diverge from social norms — that creates powerful selection pressure. Over time, the brain learns:
If I reduce how different I appear, I am more likely to stay in the group.
That is the evolutionary advantage of masking.
It increases the probability of acceptance, inclusion, and survival — and, in many contexts, reduces the risk of harm.
Masking isn’t just hiding stimming or forcing eye contact. It includes mirroring tone, copying social rhythms, suppressing natural movements, and constantly scanning for signs of disapproval. From the outside, this can look like social fluency. From the inside, it feels more like vigilance — an ongoing effort to stay safe.
This pressure is not evenly distributed.
Autistic women often live inside what researchers describe as a triple bind:
they are expected to be socially attuned, emotionally responsive, and compliant — while also navigating the penalties attached to disability and difference. The cost of not masking is often higher for them: social rejection, misinterpretation, or being labeled difficult, rude, or unstable. Masking becomes a way to survive gendered social expectations layered on top of neurodivergence.
People with higher support needs face a different but equally powerful bind. Their differences are more visible, and visibility increases vulnerability — to punishment, restraint, exclusion, or loss of autonomy. For them, masking is often less about fitting in and more about reducing the likelihood of being harmed.
Evolution doesn’t select for comfort. It selects for what keeps you in the group. Masking, in many environments, does exactly that. It helps autistic people remain in classrooms, workplaces, medical systems, and families that might otherwise push them out.
But survival strategies come with costs.
Maintaining two versions of yourself — who you are and who you must appear to be — consumes enormous energy. Over time, that split leads to exhaustion, anxiety, and autistic burnout. What looks like competence from the outside can feel like never being allowed to rest on the inside.
Seeing masking as an evolutionary response shifts the frame. The issue isn’t that autistic people mask. It’s that so many environments still require it.
When people don’t have to camouflage their nervous system just to stay safe, they don’t burn out trying to survive.
