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One of the central ideas in You Seemed Fine is that looking okay and being okay are not necessarily the same thing. I got very good at looking okay. This excerpt is from the chapter where I try to figure out how that happened, what it cost, and why a person can become surprisingly skilled at impersonating someone who has everything under control.
Chapter 4: How to Pass as Normal Without Dying Inside
Masking, blending, shape-shifting. At what cost?
One of the great ironies of my life is that I now make a living from my voice.
Not metaphorically. Literally. My voice.
Professional podcasting, radio commercials, corporate narration, one dubious film credit. I’ve spent a decade being paid to talk—and I’m good at it. It surprises even me sometimes.
That said, I remember a time when I would speak in any voice except my own.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I embraced being weird and nerdy, but I absolutely remember when it became obvious I was interesting in the wrong way.
For a stretch in my youth, I’m fairly certain my mother single-handedly kept Carnation in business. The condensed milk, not the flowers. She drank it in her tea, constantly. (I am not judging her for my own caffeine dependency; merely honouring the lineage.)
At some point, Carnation ran a promotion: send in enough labels and a few dollars, and they’d mail you a cassette tape of “Radio Reruns.” Classic stuff—Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, W. C. Fields, Groucho Marx. For reasons I didn’t fully understand, I begged her to let me send away for one.
In hindsight, I think I just wanted to get mail.
(I would later be ensnared by the Columbia House Record & Tape Club for similar reasons. I also outwitted them...but that’s a story for another chapter—possibly titled Theft by Long Play: A Short History of Childhood Fraud.)
Already obsessed with Rich Little, I decided impersonating these vintage voices was a noble and necessary life goal. I practised, proudly, and then brought my best old-timey impressions to school.
It did not go well.
There is, as it turns out, no social cachet in being able to do a passable W. C. Fields impression in Grade 6. Especially if no one knows who W. C. Fields is.
So, I pivoted. I stopped trying to be liked and leaned into being invisible. I retreated into Moldvay-Cook and Gygax D&D. CARtoons magazine. Mixtapes on my father’s turntable. I careened from André Gagnon to Boston to Mötley Crüe in a single week. I lost sleep watching Night Tracks and skipped homework to enjoy MuchMusic’s Power Hour. I co-founded a garage band in my friend’s basement and worked weekends at the radio station in Flin Flon, where I discovered that after midnight, I could play anything I wanted—including dangerously heavy metal like Bon Jovi and Giuffria.
That radio job was part legacy, part miscalculation, and part being friends with the kid whose dad owned the station. (He also introduced me to D&D and Rush—arguably the most towering influence of my childhood. Thank you, Kevin.)
At one point, the KFC franchise in Flin Flon held auditions for a local radio commercial. I think they were going for “cute.” I was about 14, and my voice had already dropped into early-morning-AM-radio territory. I believe it was News Director Joe McCormick who recorded my audition and remarked, “He sounds like old-time radio.” (Thanks, Carnation.)
I didn’t win the contest, but about two years later I was invited back to audition for an actual job. Second time’s the charm. Hired.
It was perfect! Just me in a booth with two turntables, two reel-to-reel tape machines, two cart decks, and one microphone. No people. No small talk. Just signal and silence. Heaven.
For a while, that was all I needed.
I eventually escaped employment and other real-world entanglements with a quick seven year stint at university. I did well there because I was free to choose courses I thought I would enjoy, without giving much thought to their real-world utility. All was well until I graduated.
Until I got a job where my boss decided I was their personal project.
They worried I was spending too much time alone. They weren’t wrong.
They insisted I come along on what they called “Parish Visits”—wandering the halls to interrogate unsuspecting coworkers with questions like: “So, how was your weekend?” It was like speed friending, except none of us asked for it.
I hated it... and it worked.
People started liking me. Against all odds, I started to like them back. Some of them. At the very least I liked the idea of being liked by people I actually didn’t like. I realized, with some horror, that my childhood instincts were almost right: I did need to master impressions. I just needed to impersonate a neurotypical extrovert.
I learned the part, rehearsed, and delivered. To this day, my best work is still first thing in the morning. That’s when I have the right cocktail of legitimate curiosity, authentic warmth, and entirely fabricated social energy to pull off a believable human being.
Of course, no one gives you a manual for this. You just pick it up from years of observation, trial-and-error, and watching people who seem less tired than you. So in the interest of public service, here’s the starter pack I wish I had.
Tips for Passing as a Functional Human (Without Crying in the Supply Closet)
- Develop three go-to small talk topics: weather, dogs, or vaguely referencing TV shows without naming them.
- Practice “The Laugh of Recognition.” Even if you don’t get the joke. (Especially if you don’t.)
- Carry a drink at all times. Coffee = alert. Tea = calm. Sparkling water = interesting. Alcohol = mistake.
- Learn to say “Interesting point!” while your brain is rebooting.
- If you forget someone’s name mid-conversation, invent a nickname and say it with confidence. “You know what, bud, I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
- Wear a blazer. Even if it’s over pyjamas. People trust a person in a blazer.
- Set a calendar alert titled “YOU ARE A PERSON” 10 minutes before every social event.
Here’s what no one tells you about masking: it’s not deception. It’s translation.
Think of it as being functionally bilingual. You speak fluently in the language neurotypical people expect—their grammar, their pacing, their unwritten rules about eye contact and small talk and when to laugh. You’ve learned it well enough to pass. Well enough that most people never realize it isn’t your first language.
But here’s the thing about speaking a second language all day: it costs something that speaking your own doesn’t. You can be fluent and still be exhausted by it. The translation is never quite automatic. There’s always a half-second delay between what you feel and what you say, a small tax on every interaction, paid in the currency of effort.
You speak it for their comfort, not yours.
My entire masking strategy might as well have been developed by SCTV—vaguely Canadian, underfunded, and a little too character-driven for its own good.
When I was a child, I desperately wanted to be a crossing guard.
You read correctly. Not a firefighter and not an astronaut— a crossing guard.
I was transfixed by the handheld stop sign. The way traffic—enormous, indifferent, unstoppable traffic—simply obeyed. One person, one sign, and the whole chaotic machinery of the adult world ground to a halt on command.
I didn’t have a word for what I wanted, I just knew it looked like power in its purest, most legible form. No ambiguity, no reading the room, and no wondering if you’d misread someone’s expression or missed an unspoken cue. You wielded the sign—a red octagon of power—and the cars stopped. The children crossed. Everyone understood their role.
It was the only job I’d ever seen where the rules applied equally to everyone and nobody pretended otherwise.
I didn’t get to be a crossing guard then. Apparently there’s an age requirement, and when I reached it, the dream had faded.
(I've spent most of my adult life looking for the equivalent. A signal that means stop. A sign everyone agrees to follow. A moment where the instructions are visible and the compliance is guaranteed.)
(Still looking.)
Emergency Social Energy Protocol: Office Edition
- Doors closed: 12% recovery/hour
- Coffee acquired: +2 charisma (temporary)
- Compliment deflected: +1 mask durability
- Time until collapse: approx. 2.7 meetings
These can really help to slow the depletion of social energy, but it still has to be rationed. Too much, too soon, and I’m gassed by lunch.
If I have to present, interview, or do any kind of public social lift, I go underground in the hours before. Silence. Darkness. Minimal light exposure. If the day is filled with back-to-back performance moments, I sometimes need a nap in between.
It’s called flexible hours. It’s called work-life balance. It’s also called coping. “Presenteeism” mantra be damned, my very best work has always been done remotely.
When I launched my eponymous podcast, my wife would often listen to the smooth, charming, inquisitive voice skilfully guiding an interview and ask: “Who is that man?” It was me, of course. The dating profile version. The best-case-scenario me. And while the episodes were 30–60 minutes long, that doesn’t mean I existed in that version for a full hour. I recorded, collapsed, recovered, monologued, rewrote, rebuilt...
A revolving door of cool theme music helped. I always chose something new. Used once and never again. Always something I could metabolize emotionally—like medicine or a meditation bell. It signalled I could stop pretending. I could be real again.
Please don’t mistake me. I love the podcasts I’ve produced. I’m proud of the work. It couldn’t be more me, but it is a costly thing to produce. And sometimes... the mask slips.
Today, for example. The task was wildly underestimated. The broadcast ran long. The tech failed. Mistakes happened live. Everyone had to cope in real time. I visibly cracked around the edges: no shouting, just sighing, mumbling. Fretful glances. My face did the talking.
I’m still bad at small talk. I still score INTJ every time I take the Myers-Briggs, with the “I” practically cracking the scale.
People sometimes ask why I went into social work. I said this in You Tried, and I’ll say it again: I was trying to fix myself.
I can’t promise to fix you, but you may receive collateral benefit by reading further. Manitoba public schools gave me the vocabulary to write books. Social Work gave me the emotional insight to write this one. So, if you’re not ready to retire from high-functioning impersonation just yet, here are more selected coping mechanisms from my personal arsenal—designed for the neurodivergent actor still performing eight days a week with no understudy.
Your Masking Toolkit: Now With More Features and Fewer Feelings!
Everything you need to impersonate a well-adjusted adult without raising suspicion.
- Emotion-Muffling Filter™ Now available in three moods: Pleasant Indifference, Slight Amusement, and That Smiling Numbness You Get at Work Parties. Reusable. Biodegradable.
- Pre-Memorized Empathy Responses Includes classics like “Oh no, that sounds really hard,” and “You’re so strong for getting through that.” For best results, nod occasionally.
- Voice Modulator: Office Edition Automatically adjusts your tone to sound upbeat, invested, and vaguely caffeinated. Warning: may default to customer service voice under pressure.
- Eye Contact Calibration System Helps you maintain 3–5 seconds of eye contact without becoming a lizard or a cult recruiter.
- Reboot Phrase Generator Handy for when your brain goes blank mid-conversation. Say: “Well, that’s something to think about,” then escape at the first opportunity.
- Emergency Exit Strategy™ Sometimes you just know the mask is about to tear, and when that moment comes, you need an exit plan that doesn’t involve faking a family emergency—unless you’re okay with playing that card. (I’ve used it twice. Once for real.) Including:
- “I forgot I left my [something] in the car.” (Even if you don’t own a [something], or a car.)
- “I just got a text from my kid.” (Real or imagined.)
- “I have a thing.” (Vague. Effective. Timeless.)
Signs You’re Not Actually Okay
(but you’ve said “I’m Good!” so convincingly that even you believe it) (maybe)
- You just replied “Haha” to an email that had no jokes in it.
- You’ve “looked forward to the weekend” for 46 consecutive months.
- You’ve completed six workplace wellness webinars but still scream internally when the phone rings.
- Your response to “How’s it going?” is always “Busy!”—and you’re not sure if you’re bragging or begging for help.
- Your hobbies include lying down in different rooms.
- You start every Monday with a motivational quote and end it with a 38-minute dissociative scroll through Facebook Marketplace.
- You read a book about burnout but got too tired halfway through and never finished.
- You’ve rehearsed smiling in the bathroom mirror just to check if it still looks human.
- You fantasize about taking a sabbatical, but only to be alone in a quiet hotel with free breakfast and good Wi-Fi.
- You said, “I’m good!” three times today. Once to your boss, once to your partner, and once to the mirror. You didn’t believe it any of those times.
Masking FAQ: Asked by No One, But Still Useful
Q: How do I know if I’m masking too much?
A: If you’ve ever come home from work, taken off your coat, and immediately cried into a bowl of cereal.
Q: Is there a right way to mask?
A: Only if you’re at a masquerade. Otherwise, it’s survival, not strategy.
Q: Can masking become a superpower?
A: Sure, but remember that most superheroes also have trauma and no retirement benefits package.
Q: If I’m good at masking, does that mean I’m fine?
A: No. It means you’re convincing. A very different skill set.
That’s where I’ll leave the excerpt.
The rest of You Seemed Fine is about what happens when you get very good at looking fine, but start wondering what “fine” is actually supposed to mean.
You Seemed Fine: A Guide to Functioning (Sort of) will be available September 25, 2026.
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