When Giftedness is Underachievement

I’ve discovered that I’m blessed to be different. Homeschooling my twice-exceptional kids, and creating a life for them I never had, I’ve found peace. I’ve found belonging. I’ve found a tribe. I’ve found acceptance. My hope and my prayer for the entire gifted community is that everyone in it finds their peace, too. I’m still different. It’s just now that I know and recognize my giftedness, I can embrace myself and finally accept me.

My childhood was spent searching for a place to belong. The never-ending search for acceptance influenced—and still does in some ways—all the aspects of my life. When I recently contacted my childhood school district for my educational records, at close examination, I noticed that I had pretty much given up by third grade; many things started to make sense.

The last of four kids and the only girl in a Brady-style family, and not raised with my paternal family as a consistent presence, I was always different. Too emotional, too much, too excitable, too happy, too sad, too angry… 

There were years I can remember, in my youth, when I joined the popular kids at Bible study on Wednesday nights. They were nice and all, but I was different; I wanted to learn the Bible, not play games and talk about hairdos and boys.

I found some friends who listened to country music, and I learned to line dance, wearing Ropers and cowboy hats. They were nice, too, but I was different; I didn’t care for country music or boys wearing tight jeans.

One of my first boyfriends was a motorcycle-driving, overall-wearing, self-proclaimed redneck and a skinhead. He was nice—well, to me. But I was still different; I wasn’t into being doted over, the smell or Drakkar, or the volatility and seething anger for other human beings that happened to be born different.

I found a group of friends and dated a few boys in the skating and punk-rock-grunge circles. They were super fun to be around and hilarious to watch in a mosh pit. But I was different; I wasn’t into doing hard drugs, painting graffiti, running from the police, and generally wreaking havoc just to ensure that society maintained a healthy fear and continued with stereotyping.

My best girlfriends weren’t friends with each other. We’d known one another from different circles. They’d never crossed paths with one another and didn’t care to. How could I have so much in common with each of them, and they have absolutely nothing in common with each another? I was different in middle school and tired of inappropriate comments from male teachers. “You’d make better grades if you wore a skirt every once in a while,” I distinctly remember one saying.

I’d given up. I began actually working towards failing grades, on some level hoping an adult would notice, care enough and fix it all.

In high school, I made the rounds with everyone, with the exception of the jocks and cheerleaders because they were just too… intensely happy to be there. They had too much school spirit in a place that didn’t really care. The adults are just herding cattle and getting a paycheck.

In my family, we were “required” to go to college, even if we were as utterly directionless as I was. My senior year of high school, I went digging to try and discover what it was I was actually meant for. I’d had an inclination towards medical knowledge. After all, my favorite books to read as a youngster had been our family encyclopedias, and I really enjoyed whatever I could learn about medical things. I thought maybe a nursing career was in my future and started looking into nursing programs.

That idea came crashing down after I’d excitedly shared what I’d researched and discovered with a parent and they said, “Well, you have to graduate from high school first,” as if to say, “you’re not good enough to even get through this,—what makes you think you can make it in nursing school?” Again, I gave up.

Meandering through community college, working trivial jobs and attending as many concerts as I could buy tickets for became my life after high school—that and moving out and away from my parents as quickly as humanly possible.

So here I am. An underachieving, assumingly gifted woman without direction. I met and married a man who is both my intellectual equal as much as he is my equal in intensity. We share two children together as well as a child from a previous relationship, that I was honored to help raise and call mine.

I didn’t know about giftedness nor that my paternal family is loaded with gifted people nor that my maternal family is sprinkled with them. That is, until I began raising my own intense children. What I’ve learned in my twenty years of parenting is that it’s important for us all to have a tribe. To know and accept ourselves. To find a place where we’re loved, no matter our passions, intensities, beliefs, or opinions.

I’ve discovered that I’m blessed to be different. Homeschooling my twice-exceptional kids, and creating a life for them I never had, I’ve found peace. I’ve found belonging. I’ve found a tribe. I’ve found acceptance. My hope and my prayer for the entire gifted community is that everyone in it finds their peace, too. I’m still different. It’s just now that I know and recognize my giftedness, I can embrace myself and finally accept me.