Shame, Performance, and the Disappearing Self
It’s day four in The Boundary Series. If you’re just joining us, I recommend starting from the beginning as each article builds on the one before it.
Yesterday, we explored the red flags we often ignore in ourselves and how they can quietly pull us further from our core truth. Today, we’re looking at what happens when those red flags go unanswered. When we drift. When we vanish.
When we abandon our boundaries, especially the quiet, internal ones, we begin to drift from our core values. Slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, we start behaving in ways that don’t reflect who we are. That’s how we end up burned out, anxious, disconnected, or resentful.
Not because we’re broken, but because we’ve wandered too far from our center.
This kind of misalignment is especially common for neurodivergent people, who are often socialized to adapt, perform, and accommodate. But when we do that too long, we lose the thread of our own integrity. Boundaries are what tie us back to it.
We often take pride in our emotional intelligence or our ability to shift gears quickly. But the truth is, we can only shape-shift for so long before the cost becomes too great. Boundaries allow us to come back to ourselves.
When I was sixteen, I consciously decided to become the kind of person I’d want to be around. I bragged about this for years, how emotionally intelligent and self-aware I was at such a young age. But really, I was just creating a version of myself based on what I thought others would like. My boundaries weren’t based in authenticity, they were based in performance. Our intent isn’t consciously performative. We genuinely believe aligning ourselves with others' expectations is the “right path.” That our discomfort, depression, and anxiety are rooted in the belief that we DON’T, in fact, fit in. But that sensation never truly goes away. These small adjustments pull us further from authenticity, dragging us deeper into despair. It does not feel good to try so hard, and not find a place or person that truly “fits.”
These performances often become a means of survival. Physical survival, emotional survival, social survival. For marginalized individuals this survival instinct is based on lived experiences and generational traumas. This “role-playing” is intensified by systemic pressure and is a trauma-informed strategy, not a flaw or an arbitrary need to fit in. When someone views your boundaries as a means of keeping them out, and experience tells us we can never be too sure who is safe and who is not, we adjust our boundaries in order to survive, often allowing the unwelcome in.
Shame thrives in the gap between who we are and who we think we should be. When we live in performance, shame becomes the quiet current beneath our thoughts: “If they knew the real me…” Boundary work gives us the scaffolding to meet that shame with compassion, not compliance.
Being hyper-self-aware, I could feel that something was not right. I had been constantly working on myself, iterating towards this desirable end-state, but I was growing more depressed and less present in my life. I felt ashamed when my performance fell short. I felt ashamed when my passion came out. I reacted rather than reflecting and responding.
I was burnt out.
If any of this sounds familiar, it’s not because you’re broken, it’s because you’ve been remarkably adaptive in a world that didn’t always meet you where you are.
Over time, I began to ask better questions. I started to ask if I showed up authentically in a given situation. If the answer was no, I asked why. That, too, is boundary work. That is also self-iteration, but now towards authenticity rather than conformity. I will go deeper into authenticity and this idea of iterating towards your authentic self in The Authenticity Series.
You do not have to audition for belonging. The self you’ve been performing to be already contains the roots of who you really are. Rebuilding trust with that self begins with noticing when you vanish and returning, gently, again and again.
Reflective Prompts
Take a moment to think about or even jot down how you would answer these questions, then expand to see how I answered them.
If answering these feels tender or tricky, you’re not alone. These questions are doorways, not demands. Enter them as you’re ready.
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During my tenure in tech, I once received performance feedback that I was “talking at people,” as if I “thought they were stupid.”
My immediate internal response was, “I’m not their mother.” And honestly? If I were a man, I doubt I would’ve received the same note. That may or may not be true. But I believed it, though it felt beside the point.
The truth is, I’m a direct communicator. I ask a lot of questions. I seek context. I’m the kind of person who walks into your office and gets right to it, not because I don’t care about how you’re doing, but because my brain is focused on the problem I came to solve.
But my role required something different. It required that I meet people where they were. That I learn how to communicate in a way they could hear. So I adapted. I learned how to open with small talk, how to check in, how to soften my presence before diving in. I coached others on communication, too. I got really good at it.
And I didn’t do this in shame, I did it because I’m smart. Because survival sometimes means shaping yourself into someone people can receive, especially in systems that aren’t designed to hold your full depth.
Now, some might say, “That’s just good business.” But I challenge that.
Why is being direct seen as combative? Why is asking questions viewed as threatening? Why are we so quick to label clarity as confrontation?
Was I really the problem in that situation?
Or was I simply too much for a system that never made space for someone like me?
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There are two that come to mind right away, both deeply ingrained.
The first: I’ve hidden how smart I am. I’ve quieted what I knew, assuming if I had the answer, surely everyone else must too. So I held back. I didn’t want to seem like I was showing off. I didn’t want to be “too much.”
I remember being in fourth grade (yes, that little girl needs healing, too) and our teacher asked, “How long does it take for food to digest?”
I knew the answer. It’s 24 hours. But I stayed silent. I watched other kids offer guesses: three hours, one hour, two. All wrong. I still didn’t raise my hand.
I knew it. But I didn’t let myself be known.
The second: I’ve hidden the part of me that remembers people. Really remembers them. Not names necessarily, but stories. Moments. Stray comments tucked into passing conversations.
Like the woman on the bus who admired my purse and told me about her estranged daughter. Or another woman on the bus who once shared that she and her husband wanted children but couldn’t have them, and how she felt after paying off her student loans.
I’ve remembered these things for years.
And I used to hide that. Because people told me it made them uncomfortable.
But I’ve come to realize: this isn’t weirdness. It’s presence. It’s care. It’s connection. And it’s part of who I am.
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Magic. Breath. Sensuality.
I’m discovering a life that fits me and a voice that doesn’t apologize for existing.
I’m learning that rest can actually be restful.
I’m letting go of false humility and allowing myself to own that I am smart. That I remember you. That I store away details and ideas and little glimmers of knowledge like a crow builds a nest, deliberately, instinctively, with joy.
If performance taught me how to disappear, then boundary work is how I reappear.
Fully. Quietly. Breath by breath.