The G-Word

Why Calling Myself 'Gifted' Feels Like Coming Out of a Closet I Didn't Know I Was In

TL;DR: Every time I use the words "gifted" or "twice-exceptional," I watch people's faces do that thing—you know, that micro-expression between "oh, he's one of THOSE people" and "must be nice to think you're so special." Even my mom tells me to stop using these terms. But here's the thing: these aren't vanity labels I picked up at a self-help seminar. They're clinical descriptors for a neurological reality that's as much curse as blessing. And until we can talk about cognitive difference without cringing, people like me will keep suffering in silence, convinced our intensity is a character flaw rather than neural wiring.

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My mom texted me last week: "Just be careful when talking to others when referring to yourself as 'brilliant' and 'exceptional'. They may not realize where those labels come from. 😊"

That smiley face. The gentle way she's trying to protect me from myself. From the eye rolls. From the assumptions. From the social suicide of claiming an identity that sounds like I'm humblebragging about my IQ while everyone else is just trying to make it through their Tuesday.

Here's what I wanted to text back: "Cool, Mom. Should I also stop mentioning I'm autistic? Maybe dial down the ADHD talk too? How about we just pretend I'm neurotypical with some quirky hobbies and an unfortunate tendency to overwhelm people with my enthusiasm?"

But I didn't. Because she's not wrong.

The Impossible Conversation

Try explaining "twice-exceptional" to someone at a dinner party. Go ahead. Watch their eyes glaze over as you fumble through "well, it means gifted with learning differences, but gifted doesn't mean what you think it means, and it's actually about asynchronous development and overexcitabilities, and—"

Stop. You've already lost them. They're mentally sorting you into one of two boxes:

1. Pretentious asshole who needs everyone to know how smart he is

2. That guy who won't shut up about his self-diagnosed everything

Neither box has room for the truth: that "giftedness" is a neurodevelopmental difference as real as ADHD, as impactful as autism, and as misunderstood as both combined.

What "Gifted" Actually Means (Spoiler: It's Not What You Think)

Let me get clinical for a hot second, because apparently that's the only way this conversation doesn't sound like an ego trip:

Giftedness isn't about being smarter than everyone else. It's about having a nervous system that's essentially running different software. We're talking:

• Overexcitabilities (imagine all your senses, emotions, and thoughts permanently set to 11)

• Asynchronous development (picture a 40-year-old's existential dread in a 5-year-old's emotional regulation system)

• Intensity that others experience as "too much" but we experience as "Tuesday"

Twice-exceptional means you get all that PLUS learning differences, ADHD, autism, or other neurodivergent traits. It's like being a Ferrari with bicycle brakes—incredible potential paired with systems that weren't designed to handle the output.

But try explaining that without sounding like you're saying "I'm basically a superhero with some tragic flaws."

The Daily Reality Nobody Sees

You know what giftedness actually looks like in my daily life?

• Having 17 solutions to a problem but being unable to explain any of them in less than 40 minutes

• Feeling physical pain from small talk while simultaneously craving deep connection

• Watching people's faces shift from interest to overwhelm as I explain something I'm passionate about

• The constant calculation: "How much of myself can I show without scaring them?"

• Executive function collapse because my brain is processing at broadband speeds through dial-up infrastructure

It's not a gift. It's a different operating system that comes with its own bugs, compatibility issues, and a user manual nobody bothered to write.

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Thinker

Here's what really gets me: the isolation. When you can't name your experience, you can't find your people. When I was growing up, I didn't know there was a word for kids who read quantum physics for fun but couldn't remember to turn in homework. I just knew I was "weird," "too intense," "intimidating," "exhausting."

The first time I read about overexcitabilities, I cried. Not because I was happy to be "special," but because it meant I wasn't broken. My intensity wasn't a character flaw. My inability to enjoy small talk wasn't rudeness. My need to understand everything at its deepest level wasn't pretension.

It was neurology.

The Twice-Exceptional Double Bind

But here's where it gets really fun. When you're twice-exceptional, you're too functional for disability services but too scattered for gifted programs. You're the kid who can solve calculus problems but can't tie their shoes. The adult who can revolutionize a business process but forgets to eat for 14 hours.

People see the high-functioning moments and assume the struggles are laziness, manipulation, or attention-seeking. They see the struggles and assume the brilliance is exaggerated, compensatory, or delusional.

You can't win. So most of us learn to hide both sides.

Why I Keep Using the Words Anyway

So why do I keep using these terms that make everyone uncomfortable, including my own mother?

Because accuracy matters. Because "quirky" doesn't capture the neurological reality. Because "smart but scattered" minimizes both the gifts and the challenges. Because every time I water down my experience to make others comfortable, I participate in my own erasure.

But mostly? Because somewhere out there is another person whose brain runs too hot, too fast, too much. Who's been told they're "too intense" their whole life. Who's brilliant at pattern recognition but can't remember where they put their keys. Who needs to know there's a name for what they are.

That person needs to hear someone say "I'm gifted and twice-exceptional" without apology, without caveat, without the nervous laugh that says "but not in a pretentious way!"

The Path Forward

I'm tired of apologizing for my neurology. Tired of softening language to protect other people's assumptions. Tired of pretending that cognitive differences only count when they're deficits, not intensities.

So here's my proposal: Let's get uncomfortable. Let's talk about giftedness as a form of neurodivergence. Let's acknowledge that some brains run hotter, faster, more intensely—and that this isn't bragging any more than saying "I have ADHD" is bragging.

Let's create space for the twice-exceptional experience without requiring people to perform just enough struggle to be believed or just enough achievement to be valid.

To Everyone Who Cringed at "Gifted"

I get it. The word sucks. It sounds elitist, exclusionary, like something a helicopter parent would put on their kid's college application. I cringe too, every single time I use it.

But until we have better language, this is what we've got. And I'd rather use imperfect words than no words at all. Because silence hasn't served any of us.

If you're still reading this and feeling some type of way about my use of "gifted," ask yourself: Would you have the same reaction if I said "autistic"? If not, why? Both are neurodevelopmental differences. Both come with strengths and challenges. Both are largely invisible and deeply misunderstood.

The difference is that we've done the work to understand autism as a neurological reality, not a superiority complex. It's time we did the same for giftedness.

The Bottom Line

Yes, Mom, I know these labels make people uncomfortable. I know they sound pretentious out of context. I know the smiley face in your text was trying to protect me from the social consequences of claiming this identity.

But I'm done prioritizing other people's comfort over my own truth. I'm gifted. I'm twice-exceptional. I'm autistic. I have ADHD. These aren't badges of honor or marks of shame—they're facts about how my brain works.

And if that makes dinner party conversation awkward? Well, I was never any good at small talk anyway.

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Jon Mick is still figuring out how to explain his neurodivergent constellation without sounding like he's auditioning for The Big Bang Theory. He's currently hyperfocusing on this sentence while forgetting to eat lunch.