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There are days when I feel like my nervous system is being held hostage.

I want to walk into the world as myself, unguarded, unfiltered, spontaneous, but just as I begin to, something clamps down inside.

My breath shortens, my words rehearse themselves before leaving my mouth, and I shrink. It feels as if an invisible captor is whispering: Don’t risk it. They’ll leave. They’ll laugh. Stay small.

That’s life with ADHD complicated by Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD). It’s not just an occasional overreaction to criticism; it’s an entire nervous system hijacked by the fear of rejection. And sometimes, we get so used to living under its rule that we begin to mistake captivity for safety.

This is what I mean when I say RSD can feel like Stockholm Syndrome for the ADHD brain.

What is Stockholm Syndrome?

The phrase was born in Sweden in 1973, after a botched bank robbery. Four hostages were trapped in a vault for six days. The world expected them to be furious when they were finally released, but instead, something stranger happened. Some defended their captors. One woman even began raising money for the robber’s legal defence.

Psychologists were baffled. Why would someone bond with the very people who threatened their lives? The explanation was not rational but biological. When escape feels impossible, the nervous system recalibrates: if I align with the danger, maybe I’ll survive it. By seeing the captor as protector, the unbearable tension of captivity becomes more manageable.

In other words, Stockholm Syndrome is a paradoxical survival strategy: attaching to the threat because clinging to fear feels safer than resisting it.

And this, I believe, is the closest description of what happens inside an ADHD brain when RSD becomes the loudest voice in the room.

The survival theatre of masking

When rejection feels fatal, we adapt. ADHDers learn to mask: to smooth out our edges, mimic the rhythms of others, and hide the qualities that might provoke criticism. Masking is often spoken of as camouflage, but it is more than that; it is theatre. We dress in borrowed normality, rehearse our lines, and perform palatability on cue.

From the outside, it looks like competence. From the inside, it feels like erasure. Because while our neurology thrives on truth, spontaneity, and creativity, masking demands suppression, delay, and endless monitoring. Our authenticity longs to sing; the mask insists we lip-sync.

And masking is not just tiring, it is metabolically draining. The ADHD brain already burns energy less efficiently in today’s world. The prefrontal cortex, the part that manages planning, inhibition, and self-control, runs hot, chewing through limited glucose supplies. Forcing ourselves to mask accelerates that depletion. That’s why so many ADHDers return home after a day of “coping” and collapse, baffled by why they’re so drained. It wasn’t the workload that exhausted them; it was the performance.

But if masking is the performance, RSD is the director in the wings, handing us the script before the curtain rises.

RSD: the inner authority that dictates the script

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria doesn’t wait for rejection to occur. It anticipates, edits, and censors in advance. A delayed reply, a raised eyebrow, silence in a conversation, the amygdala (in charge of emotions in the brain) interprets them as threats. To an ADHD brain, rejection doesn’t feel like mild disappointment. It feels like annihilation.

So the nervous system reacts as though life depends on it. Heart rate spikes. Muscles tighten. Thoughts spiral. We comply with the fear before anyone has even criticised us. We polish our words, dilute our opinions, apologise in advance.

This is how the bond with fear begins. Because every time we obey, the nervous system rewards us with relief. Cortisol drops. The amygdala quiets. A flicker of dopamine brings temporary calm. The hippocampus logs the appeasement as evidence: See? That worked. Do it again next time.

And suddenly, the fear has become familiar. Familiarity feels safe. We start to cling to it, treating RSD less like an intruder and more like a protector. Just as hostages defend their captors, we defend the rules of our own captivity.

The hostage bond inside the brain

This is where the Stockholm Syndrome metaphor becomes more than poetic. Our nervous system bonds with RSD because the relief it offers feels like survival. The appeasement loop becomes muscle memory. People-pleasing is not a quirk of character; it is the body’s attempt to keep the peace with its captor.

Over time, this bond shapes our sense of self. We confuse compliance with kindness. We call masking “professionalism.” We mistake people-pleasing for generosity. But beneath those disguises lies a nervous system trained to serve fear.

And while fear offers temporary calm, it also exacts a brutal cost: invisibility. We have committed the ultimate rejection. The one of self-abandonment.

The exhaustion of contradiction

ADHD authenticity longs for truth: impulsive laughter, wild creativity, uncensored intensity. RSD fear demands performance: careful words, muted colours, endless self-monitoring. Holding both is like driving with one foot on the accelerator and the other on the brake.

No wonder burnout is common. The prefrontal cortex exhausts itself trying to suppress impulses. The body floods with stress hormones in anticipation of rejection. The contradiction is not weakness—it is biology. The nervous system is doing double duty, and the body buckles under the strain.

This is the exhaustion I see in so many of my clients, and one I’ve known intimately myself. People arrive in therapy baffled by why they can’t cope with “ordinary” demands. But it isn’t the tasks themselves; it’s the captivity. Life lived as contradiction is unsustainable.

And this is why I’ve devoted so much of my work to this paradox.

Why I work with this

I don’t write about these patterns from the safety of theory alone. I know them in my own body. I know what it is to rehearse my words three times before speaking, to people-please before anyone has even made a demand, to live in the push-pull of wanting authenticity but fearing rejection.

And I also know the relief of loosening that bond. It’s why I do the work I do: supporting people through therapy, coaching, and teaching, helping them recognise the ingenuity of their masks while slowly renegotiating their allegiance to fear.

I run courses and coaching containers because I believe this work cannot just be talked about; it must be practiced. And I sit with people in therapy because I know that unmasking is not a solo act; it requires safe relational space.

This is not about shaming the mask. It’s about teaching the nervous system a new definition of safety.

Loosening the bond

The hostage bond can’t be broken with logic. You can’t tell yourself stop caring what people think and expect the nervous system to comply. Safety isn’t commanded; it’s experienced. The body needs new evidence, collected slowly, that authenticity is survivable.

That begins in small ways: voicing a preference and noticing you weren’t abandoned. Disagreeing with a friend and finding the friendship still intact. Saying no and watching the world remain standing.

Each of these moments rewrites the nervous system’s memory. Slowly, the hippocampus (stores memories in the brain) logs new evidence: See? Truth didn’t destroy me. And gradually, the hostage realises the door has always been ajar.

A gentle practice

The nervous system can’t be reasoned out of fear; it has to be shown. Here’s one gentle way to begin. Start small. Try this as a way to begin to stay with yourself:

1. Place a hand on your chest. Inhale for four, exhale for six. Let your body feel the signal: we are safe enough to slow down.

2. Whisper softly: I can be a little more me and still be safe.

3. Choose one small act of authenticity today: say no without explanation, admit you’re tired, share an honest opinion.

4. Anchor it to the body: pair the act with a long exhale, a soft hum, or widening your gaze. Teach yourself that truth and calm can arrive together.

5. If you mask again, don’t scold yourself. Thank the mask: You kept me safe when I needed it. I’m learning another way now.

The nervous system doesn’t need a revolution. It needs drops of lived safety that, over time, allow a stream of calm to flow.

Closing the loop

So is Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria the Stockholm Syndrome of the ADHD brain? In many ways, yes. RSD becomes the captor we bond with, the fear we obey, the authority we cling to even as it erases us. But captivity is not destiny.

We can renegotiate our relationship with fear. We can collect evidence that authenticity is survivable. We can let the mask, once ingenious, retire with gratitude. And when that happens, belonging shifts from brittle performance to durable truth.

This is why I work with the masked, the exhausted, the hostage parts of people’s lives. Because I know that beneath every performance is a self waiting to breathe. And when the nervous system finally learns that authenticity and safety can coexist, it is like watching someone step through a door they didn’t even realise was always open.

Belonging built on performance is fragile and short-term. Belonging built on truth is strong and enduring.