Living with AuDHD and Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria

Being AuDHD means I feel everything with an intensity that’s hard to explain — joy, curiosity, connection — but also shame, hurt, and rejection that seem to echo louder than they should. Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria, or RSD, isn’t something you’ll find listed as an official diagnosis, but it’s something that quietly shapes so much of how I exist in the world.

For me, RSD looks like silence. It’s the quiet that settles in after I think I’ve said too much, the way my words start to catch in my throat before they even have a chance to escape. It’s the long hours spent replaying a conversation in my head, combing through every pause and inflection for signs of disapproval that probably weren’t even there.

I’ve learned to stay quiet. To hold my opinions close. To weigh every word before I let it out, just in case it lands wrong. There’s a safety in silence — a fragile, brittle safety — but it’s also lonely. The less I say, the less I risk, but the smaller my world becomes.

Some of this is autism — struggling to read social cues, or taking neutral feedback as personal criticism. Some of it is ADHD — the impulsivity, the emotional crash, the deep craving for acceptance. Together, they make rejection feel like falling off a cliff, even when it’s just a small step down.

Over time, I’ve built habits of self-protection: don’t stand out, don’t be “too much,” don’t make people uncomfortable. But the cost is authenticity. When I silence myself, I lose pieces of who I am. I disconnect from the people I care about — and from the parts of me that want to be known.

That fear spills into love, too. I’ve missed out on romantic connections because I stayed quiet instead of taking the risk. There have been moments — soft, almost-electric moments — where I wanted to reach out, to say something real, to let someone know I cared. But I didn’t. I told myself it was better not to know, better not to feel that sting of rejection. It’s strange, how safety can also be a form of loss. I’ve walked away from possibilities that might have grown into something beautiful, just because I was too afraid to be seen.

Learning about RSD helped me understand that this isn’t weakness. It’s my brain trying to protect me, even if it sometimes goes too far. The intensity of my feelings isn’t “too much” — it’s a reflection of how much I care, how much I want to connect, how deeply I notice the world.

But knowing that and living differently are not the same thing. Awareness doesn’t erase the instinct to hide. It doesn’t quiet the pulse of panic that rises every time I think I’ve said the wrong thing. Change comes slowly, and some days it feels impossible — like trying to speak underwater. I want to be open, brave, unfiltered, but the fear is old and well-rehearsed.

Still, I keep trying. I keep nudging at the edges of my silence, testing the weight of my voice, even when it trembles. Maybe someday it will come easier. Maybe it won’t. But I’m learning that growth isn’t a straight line — it’s a constant negotiation between fear and hope, between wanting to stay safe and wanting to be known.

And right now, I’m somewhere in the middle of that struggle — learning, unlearning, and trying, again and again, to speak anyway.