Embracing Myself: Navigating the Drag Kingdom with Neurodiversity

When people see a drag performer on stage, they usually see confidence.

They see the sequins, the costumes, the makeup, the swagger, and the larger-than-life personality.

What they don't always see is everything that happens before the music starts.

For me, that includes living with ADHD, Major Depressive Disorder (MDD), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), and PTSD.

Those parts of me don't disappear when I glue on a beard.

They come backstage with me.

My journey into drag has been anything but conventional, but honestly, I think that's part of why it means so much to me.

Drag has become one of the few places where I feel completely free to be myself.

Now, don't get me wrong—it isn't always graceful.

The other day I somehow managed to use eyelash glue instead of eyeliner.

Yes...

I glued my eyelids together.

If that isn't ADHD in drag, I don't know what is.

Living with ADHD sometimes feels like trying to choreograph a performance while twenty different songs are playing in my head at once. Ideas come faster than I can keep up with them, which can be amazing creatively... until I need to actually finish one of them.

Depression brings its own challenges.

Sometimes the hardest part isn't getting on stage.

It's the day after.

The adrenaline is gone, the costumes are packed away, and my brain suddenly decides that everything I did was terrible—even when I know it wasn't.

Anxiety is a pretty consistent backstage companion too.

Will I trip?

Will I rip my pants if I squat?

If I dramatically drop to my knees, am I actually going to be able to stand back up?

Will I accidentally start lip-syncing before the vocals begin... again?

My brain is incredibly creative when it comes to inventing disasters that probably won't happen.

Then there's PTSD.

That's the one that's harder to joke about.

Sometimes it means feeling unsafe even in places where I know I should feel safe.

Sometimes it means seeing danger where there isn't any.

Sometimes it means my body reacts before my mind has time to catch up.

Trauma has a way of convincing you that you're still living in moments you've already survived.

That's exhausting.

But here's what I've discovered.

Drag hasn't erased any of those diagnoses.

It hasn't "fixed" me.

What it has done is give me a place where those struggles don't define me.

On stage, I'm still carrying everything I've lived through—but instead of feeling powerless, I get to transform those experiences into art.

I get to tell stories.

I get to make people laugh.

I get to make people think.

I get to take all the pieces of myself, even the messy ones, and turn them into something meaningful.

The drag community has also given me something I didn't realize I needed.

Acceptance.

I've been encouraged backstage by other performers.

I've been cheered on by audiences.

I've had people remind me that it's okay to ask for help, to step away when I need to, and to take care of myself before anything else.

That support has meant more than I can explain.

Therapy has helped.

Medication has helped.

The people who love me have helped.

None of those things make me weak.

They make it possible for me to keep showing up.

If you're reading this and you're living with ADHD, anxiety, depression, PTSD, or anything else that makes life feel a little heavier sometimes, I hope you know you aren't alone.

Your struggles don't make you less creative.

They don't make you less capable.

And they certainly don't make you less worthy of taking up space.

I want to keep doing my part to break the stigma around mental health, especially in creative spaces. Asking for help isn't failure. It's one of the bravest things we can do.

As for me...

I've got another performance to get ready for.

There's hair to glue down, a beard to put on, costumes to finish, and approximately one thousand thoughts bouncing around in my head.

Sounds about right.

See you on stage.