Sometimes leadership isn’t about showing up everywhere — it’s about knowing when your presence costs more than it gives.
After the recent leadership off-site, I walked away with a clearer picture of my limits — not in the abstract, but in the lived, minute-by-minute kind of way that you only get after a few long days of forced extroversion.
I can be “on-stage” for work or for social connection, but not both in the same stretch of time without consequences. I can show up for the strategy sessions, for the deep collaboration and problem-solving — or I can lean into the bonding parts, the team dinners and group activities. But when I consider trying to do both, something starts to fray. My focus slips, my patience thins, and I start to feel like I’m wearing a mask that gets heavier by the hour.
It’s not that I don’t value connection. I do. But when most of the planned activities revolve around unstructured social energy — the open-mic enthusiasm, the competitive games, or the endless happy-hour chatter — my internal circuitry starts to short out. I don’t drink, and while that’s just a personal choice, it turns most alcohol-centered settings into an even faster nope. They demand performance energy without offering much replenishment.
The overlap between ADHD and introversion makes this trickier.
It’s not just about being drained — it’s about the mental load of managing the drain. ADHD turns every “optional social” event into a mini project plan: monitor tone, track small talk threads, remember names, regulate self-consciousness, estimate exit strategies, mask any hint of disinterest. None of that’s natural or automatic. It’s work and effort. And when you mix in self-esteem scars from years of feeling “too much” or “not enough,” plus a healthy skepticism or concern about whether these events actually help anything, engagement starts to feel like an act of endurance rather than participation.
But here’s what surprised me this time: saying no felt good. Not defiant or recalcitrant. Instead it felt grounded.
I skipped the “optional” events. I rested. I took a walk or read instead of forcing small talk.
And the world didn’t end. The team kept bonding. I showed up the next day focused, present, and with enough energy to be useful.
That, to me, is what a healthy culture looks like — one where boundaries aren’t seen as a lack of commitment, and people are trusted to know their own limits. A place where “I’ll sit this one out” isn’t treated as a red flag.
For those designing these events, I think there’s a real opportunity here. If we want genuine connection — not performative bonding — we need to create multiple paths to it. That means offering quiet connection spaces, optional downtime, and activities that don’t all orbit around alcohol, noise, or competition. Not everyone builds trust at full volume.
For those of us attending, especially the neurodivergent among us: saying no doesn’t make you difficult or antisocial. It’s a calibration act — aligning your limited resources with what actually matters. You don’t owe anyone forced enthusiasm.
Everyone’s version of balance looks different.
This just happens to be mine for this event. It might be (probably will be) different for another event.
These are the choices that worked for me this time — yours might look completely different. I’ll follow up once I’ve had more time to reflect on what actually helped and what I’d adjust next time. But for now, I’m counting it as a quiet win: I protected my energy, and stayed myself in the process.
