Why Neurodivergent Kids Refuse To Mask: What I Learned When My Child’s Body Went On Strike
It’s 7:42 a.m. The school bus rounds the corner of our block in 8 minutes. My 11-year-old son Leo, who is autistic and ADHD, is curled on the entryway rug, socks kicked off, hoodie pulled tight over his face, and he isn’t moving. I’m leaning against the wall holding his packed lunch and his backpack, and I’m not nagging. Three months ago, I would have been kneeling over him, rushing him, reminding him to “get it together” before the neighbor saw. Three months ago, I would have called this defiance. Now I call it what it is: a strike. And I’m proud of him for it.
For five years, Leo masked. I didn’t even know what the word meant back then. I just knew he came home from first grade every day sobbing over nothing, that he got stomach aches every Sunday night, that the teacher kept sending notes saying he was “distracting” when he rocked in his chair or hummed under his breath. I told him to stop. I told him if he just sat still and looked at people when they talked and didn’t make noise, everything would be easier. I thought I was preparing him for the world.
He did it. For years, he did it. He bit his lip to stop humming, he sat on his hands to stop flapping, he forced himself to make eye contact until his eyes watered, he said “hi” and “thank you” even when his throat felt tight. By the start of sixth grade, his body couldn’t keep up. He missed 12 days of school in one semester with headaches and stomach aches that every test said had no physical cause. He’d get home and collapse on the couch and not speak for three hours. Then that Tuesday morning on the rug, he finally said what his body had been trying to tell me for months.
I sat down next to him on the rug, the scratchy wool that still has a juice stain from last summer, and I asked him what he felt. He pulled the hood down a little and said, “My body won’t move. It just won’t. I can’t do another day of pretending. My legs hurt so bad from sitting still all day, and my ears ring after the bell rings, and I’m so tired of smiling when I don’t feel like smiling.” That’s when it clicked. All that masking wasn’t just tiring—it was work his body was doing for other people, for my comfort, for the school’s idea of what a good student looks like. And eventually, any worker will go on strike when they’re asked to give more than they have.
I didn’t fix everything overnight. I didn’t demand a full school overhaul or pull him out to homeschool. We started small, with changes that took almost no extra work from anyone. First, I emailed his homeroom teacher and asked if Leo could stand at the back of the room during lessons instead of sitting at his desk. She said yes, no questions asked. We got him a pair of cheap foam earplugs he keeps in his pocket, and the school said he can use them whenever he wants, no need to raise his hand and ask permission. On days when there’s a big assembly or a class party that feels too loud and crowded, he can do his work in the library instead. That’s it. Those three small changes cut his absences from four days a month to one a month, max.
At home and in public, we changed our rules too. I got tired of other people’s comments, so I came up with a one-sentence response I use every time someone questions why he’s not “behaving right”: “He’s taking care of his body right now.” That shuts down almost any awkward conversation, and I don’t owe anyone a longer explanation. If we’re at a restaurant and he needs to stand by the window and rock while he waits for his food, that’s what we do. If we’re at a family gathering and he wants to hide in the car and play his Switch instead of sitting at the dinner table, I bring him out a plate and leave him be. I used to think I was being a bad parent by letting him do this. Now I know I’m just letting his body tell the truth.
Some people say we’re coddling him, that he needs to learn to adapt to the real world. I think the real world already demands a lot from him. I think adapting doesn’t have to mean erasing every part of yourself to make other people comfortable. I have a cousin who’s also autistic, who didn’t stop masking until he was 30, and he had a total burnout that left him unable to work for two years. He told me he wishes someone had let him stop hiding when he was a kid. I don’t want that for Leo.
It’s not all perfect. I still slip up sometimes. Last week, we were at the dentist, and I caught myself saying “Leo, look at the dentist when he talks to you” before I even thought about it. I corrected myself immediately, but it shows how ingrained this idea of “polite normal” is in all of us. Some days, he still has strike days. Some mornings, he still can’t pull his shoes on and we stay home, and we eat pancakes and watch old Ninjago episodes and he doesn’t have to pretend to be anything he’s not. There are still teachers who side-eye me, still family members who think I’m wrong, still days where I worry if I’m making the right choice.
But right now, what we’re doing works. Leo comes home from school now with enough energy to tell me about his favorite comic, to build Legos on the living room floor, to laugh at bad jokes. He doesn’t have stomach aches every Sunday night anymore. He doesn’t apologize for flapping his hands when he’s excited. That’s more than any test score, any compliment from a stranger, any idea of “normal” ever gave him. We’re still figuring it out, day by day. But I’ll take a strike over a slow burnout any day.
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