What does it look like to lead without the constant pressure to mask? In this piece, Denise Conroy shares her experience as an AuDHD professional and how a deeper understanding of her needs, paired with a culture of acceptance, has shaped the way she works and leads today.
Denise Conroy, Relay Resources’ chief of staff, is AuDHD, meaning she is both autistic and has ADHD. Like many autistic professionals, she has navigated environments where masking, or hiding parts of herself to fit in, was often expected, a dynamic that can be exhausting over time.
Through a deeper understanding of her needs and working style, Denise has found ways to build a more sustainable and supportive approach to her work. At Relay, that has included creating environments that allow her to be more comfortable and effective, such as working remotely when it supports her best.
In honor of Autism Acceptance Month, Denise shares her perspective as an AuDHD leader, what acceptance looks like in practice, and how focusing on people’s strengths can reshape how we lead and support one another at work.
Level 1 means I only require mild support in my daily life. Those supports include things like remote work and therapy to help with burnout. The abbreviation for folks like me who have both autism and ADHD is AuDHD.
What this means is that my brain is constantly at war with itself. I think of it as having a party animal and a librarian in my head. The autistic part of my brain, the librarian, is constantly looking for routine, order, and truth. The party animal or the ADHD part wants excitement, adventure, and stimulation. The two things are constantly in conflict, and they make me uniquely who I am.
I won’t lie to you and call my disability a superpower. Until I was officially diagnosed, I thought I was merely odd and unlovable because people often told me I was. Growing up, I had few close friends, and a lot of people called me weird. I never fully fit into a specific clique in school. Instead, I existed on the edges, never feeling fully noticed or accepted.
Reflecting on my life, my disability was so apparent. From an early age, I hated loud repetitive noises. I loved music, but there was a “perfect” volume for it. Anything outside of that would make my head hurt. I was extremely sensitive to clothing textures. A scratchy tag would cause me to have an emotional meltdown. So many of my childhood memories are ones of me sobbing because my outfit felt wrong. I ate a limited array of foods because I disliked so many textures. Bananas, Jell-O, bologna, and cooked onions were just some of the foods I avoided because of the off-putting mouthfeel.
From an early age, I would get obsessed with certain topics. Those topics were often related to social justice. In grade school, it was U.S. presidents. In junior high, it was community health because we lived in a place called Chemical Valley where the local industry made people sick.
I was painfully shy and dreaded social interactions. I used to rehearse future conversations in my head (still do) because I knew being social didn’t come naturally to me. I also taught myself to copy neurotypical people’s facial expressions, reactions, and eye contact.
It’s hard to believe my parents and the people around me missed my disability, but it was a different time in the 1970s and '80s. People didn’t know much about neurodivergence.
Plus, my parents were consumed with academic achievement and being what is known as traditionally “smart.” As long as I brought home A’s, they were satisfied. I’ve grown to dislike the word smart because it’s ableist and often used in such a narrow way, a way that intentionally excludes people.
When I started working, I was often told I was rude or arrogant because of my blunt, truthful way of speaking. I was often bullied at work for being different and insisting on fairness and justice. Early in my career, I learned that being good at my job was not the thing employers valued most. They wanted me to be compliant and stay silent. For that reason, I didn’t last longer than two or three years at most jobs.
Throughout my life, I’ve felt most accepted at places where I don’t have to mask all the time. Masking is when autistic people pretend to fit in, and it’s exhausting. It requires a ton of emotional effort and leads to burnout.
Have compassion: As a leader, I’ve always managed how I like to be managed. Until recently, I didn’t know I was managing to accommodate my (and other people’s) autism. For example, I’ve long supported remote work, even before coming to Relay. Remote work is autism-friendly because it reduces the amount of social labor for autistic people.
Focus on outcomes: I’ve always managed solely to outcomes. I don’t care how employees achieve their outcomes, as long as they’re behaving legally and morally. This is the opposite of most workplaces where employees are required to conform to an unwritten, performative code. This code favors small talk, “face time” (being seen in the office), tone policing, and never disagreeing. It sacrifices innovation and creativity for a false sense of harmony. It is challenging for many autistic people to follow this code because we don’t value performative, superficial things. We value truth and authenticity. As a leader, I support employees expressing their values in their work styles.
Being good at the job is good enough: I feel most accepted in workplaces like Relay where being good at my job is enough. I don’t have to hide my feelings or pretend all the time. And I don’t get punished for insisting on justice, fairness, and understanding for all. Here, we focus on people’s strengths, and I embrace that wholeheartedly. Together, our unique strengths make us a force to be reckoned with…an accepted force to be reckoned with.
Denise’s experience reminds us that building inclusive workplaces is ongoing work. It starts with how people are treated and valued every day, and with a willingness to listen, learn, and create conditions where people can show up as themselves. When trust and authenticity are prioritized, the pressure to mask can lessen, and people have more space to do their best work.
At Relay, that commitment continues to take shape through the ways people work, lead, and support one another. We encourage other organizations to take steps toward this kind of environment by treating all employees, including disabled employees, with respect and trust, and by staying open to change. Because all disabled people belong. Everywhere.