THE RETREAT.
I have an uncle who could medal if Irish goodbyes were an Olympic sport.
He can leave a dinner, a party, a gathering—and you never see him go. He just vanishes. I’ve never asked him why. I always assumed he was tired of the rest of us talking loudly over one another. Or maybe just tired in general.
Either way, I know it’s intentional.
I’m good at disappearing too—but for very different reasons.
I don’t retreat because I’m tired.
I retreat because I’m ashamed.
ADHD-related demoralization has quietly convinced me that I’m not capable of sustaining friendships based solely on who I am.
When Being Seen Starts to Feel Like Exposure
This episode isn’t about rest.
It’s not about solitude.
It’s about the kind of disappearing we do when being seen starts to feel like exposure.
I love parties. I love planning them, decorating for them, hosting them—and remembering them afterward. What I don’t love as much is attending them. The difference is control.
Hosting means I decide who’s there.
Attending means not knowing who will show up—or what they’ll ask.
I hate the question “Tell me about yourself.”
Because what I’m thinking is:
I don’t know how to explain myself. I want this conversation to be over. I would like to leave now.
Outwardly, though, I’m engaged. I ask questions. I laugh. People would probably describe me as curious and easy to talk to.
Let’s call her Life of the Party Molly.
She doesn’t stay in one place for long. She asks as many questions as possible so she doesn’t have to reveal anything about herself—not because she’s disinterested, but because she’s afraid someone will realize she doesn’t belong.
The problem is, I genuinely love people. I love learning about them. I crave connection. So I’m constantly torn between being present—and scanning for the nearest exit.
ADHD, Hypervigilance, and the Exit Scan
My ADHD complicates all of it.
If someone tells a story and takes too long to get to the point, I want to escape.
If they mention something outside my knowledge base, I panic.
If I don’t know what question to ask next, my brain freezes.
And when I leave, I replay everything.
Every interaction.
Every tone shift.
Every facial expression.
Making sure I didn’t make a fool of myself. Because if I did, obviously, I should never leave the house again.
It’s not just parties either. Lunches. Small talk before meetings. Grocery store run-ins. After-church conversations. There’s anxiety threaded through all of it.
Since naming ADHD-related demoralization, some of this has softened. I don’t feel the need to fill every silence anymore. I’m practicing letting quiet exist. I’m learning that I don’t have to be perpetually cheerful to be acceptable.
But these patterns are old. Deeply ingrained. They don’t unwind quickly.
So I retreat.
Loving Deeply, Retreating Completely
Friendships have always been complicated for me.
I love deeply.
And I get hurt deeply.
Because of my heightened awareness, I’m very good at sensing what people need—and becoming that.
If someone needs support, steady Molly shows up.
If they need humor, I bring lightness.
If they need advice, I become the big sister.
If they need a drinking buddy—hello tequila.
Each person gets the version of me that feels safest to offer.
The people in my life—the ones I’m close to, the ones I’ve loved and lost, even the ones I’ve only known peripherally—I care about them profoundly. Loving people has always come easily to me.
What hasn’t come easily is believing I can be loved back without editing myself.
Because when things get hard—when I feel inadequate, ashamed, directionless, or overwhelmed—I disappear.
I tell myself I’m being considerate. That no one would want to be around me like that. That I’m sparing people the burden of my confusion or sadness.
But the truth is, I’m protecting myself from being seen when I feel most unlovable.
Reinvention as Survival
Looking back, I can see how early this pattern began.
We moved three times between eighth grade and graduation—Florida to Alabama, then New Jersey, then Washington State. Each move gave me a chance to reinvent myself.
Honestly? It was a relief.
I could shed the effort of being someone I’d constructed and start fresh again. I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. I was surviving. I gravitated toward people who were busy with their own lives—people who wouldn’t look too closely.
But adulthood doesn’t offer clean slates.
When I stopped moving, the masks became heavier. I got tired. I tried to be real. And friendships ended—sometimes abruptly.
Years ago, I wrote down the names of close friends who had exited my life. It was a long list. Losing them hurt. But somewhere deep down, I chose myself every time.
When Pauses Are Allowed
There’s another pattern too.
When I look at the relationships that have endured—despite time, distance, and long silences—I see something clearly now.
Many of those people are wired like me.
They understand pauses.
They don’t punish absence.
They don’t require explanations.
My friend Meredith is one of those people. We’ve floated in and out of each other’s lives for years. Our friendship resumes without apology. My childhood best friend Denise is the same way. Six days, six weeks, six months—it doesn’t matter.
We all have ADHD.
Recently, Meredith asked me to help her professionally. I said yes immediately. But as the meeting approached, panic set in. I was afraid she’d see how deeply sad I’d been.
So I did what I’ve always done.
I tried to disappear.
But this time, something shifted.
Instead of canceling, I told her the truth. I let her into the innermost part of what I was carrying. And instead of pulling away, she showed up.
She didn’t try to fix me.
She didn’t judge me.
She simply loved me.
That kind of friendship is priceless.
Lowering the Mask First
Reflecting on a lifetime of friendships has taught me this: we’re often drawn to people we recognize pieces of ourselves in. Sometimes they’re just waiting for us to lower the mask first—to be vulnerable enough to give them permission to do the same.
They need us just as much as we need them.
I’m still learning how to stay instead of retreat. How to be seen without disappearing. How to trust that connection doesn’t require performance.
I’m not done with this part yet.
And that’s okay.
Until then, give yourself grace.