I used to be a genius.
I say that with the same smirk I imagine washed-up child actors wear when they introduce themselves at Comic-Con. “Hi, I was the kid in that thing once.” Except instead of a minor role in a Nickelodeon sitcom, my legacy was an above-average ability to finish a worksheet before the rest of the class finished reading the instructions. I was a “gifted kid.” Capital G. Capital K. The kind of kid teachers talked about in the teacher’s lounge like a draft pick they were grooming for the majors.
And for a while, I believed them.
This is the first and worst crime of the Gifted & Talented pipeline: it teaches children that their identity is synonymous with their potential. And then it throws them into the deep end of life and acts shocked when they drown in existential confusion.
Being a gifted kid is like being handed a sports car at 10 years old and being told, “You can go anywhere you want.” Cool. But no one mentions that you don’t have a map, the roads don’t make sense, and the gas tank is filled with untreated ADHD and a sprinkle of undiagnosed anxiety.
What no one tells you about being “gifted” is that it’s mostly just being good at standardized tests and vibing with adults who love to see themselves in precocious children. It’s a parlor trick. A performance. And like most performances, it doesn’t age well.
You don’t get medals for remembering the periodic table at 12. You don’t get into heaven because you read Crime and Punishment in 7th grade and told your teacher it was “a bit pedestrian.” You just get older. And fatter. And sadder. And more tired of hearing about how much potential you used to have.
Here’s what happens to gifted kids:
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You get into a decent college.
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You realize the world is full of people just like you—only they know how to study.
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You start procrastinating because no one ever taught you how to struggle.
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You spiral into YouTube holes about “late bloomers” and watch success story montages scored to cinematic violins.
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You gain 40 pounds.
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You write half a book, launch a quarter of a business, paint a third of a canvas, and finish nothing.
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You stare at a wall, wondering if you’re burnt out, depressed, or just fundamentally broken.
And the worst part? You still feel smart. That’s the hell of it. You’re still clever enough to come up with excuses that sound like philosophy. You’re not lazy, you’re “waiting for clarity.” You’re not disorganized, you’re “multi-passionate.” You’re not indecisive, you’re “too aware of life’s infinite complexity.”
That’s the gifted kid trap. You’re too smart to believe in yourself, but just dumb enough to think you still might win the lottery of purpose if you just manifest hard enough.
Everyone thinks being a gifted kid means you’re set for life. No. It means you’ve been groomed to chase gold stars forever, and the minute they stop appearing, you collapse. Because nobody ever taught you that real life doesn’t grade on a curve.
So here we are—sleepless and stoned, flipping between business ideas, studying six things badly, and praying to the altar of Reddit that maybe, just maybe, this time you’ll figure it out.
There’s something profoundly tragic about it. We were trained to believe we were exceptions to the rule. That we’d skip the hard parts. That we’d jump from talent to triumph with the elegance of a movie montage.
But now? Now we’re just tired people with expensive degrees and unopened Duolingo streaks, trying to remember what it felt like to be praised just for existing.
Somewhere along the way, “gifted” stopped being a compliment and started feeling like a curse. Like a prophecy you were too young to understand but too proud to question.
And maybe that’s what burns the most. Not that we failed. But that we were told we wouldn’t.