He had just spent hours learning Coding, entirely self-motivated, navigating complex concepts with an ease that amazed me. But that same day, we had a meltdown over a simple journal entry—Fun Times with Friends.
He sat there, paralyzed, unable to put words on the page. The frustration built until it erupted—tears flowing, emotions spilling over.
I watched him, torn between wonder and confusion. How could he teach himself to code but struggle so much with writing a few sentences? How could the same mind that built intricate Lego structures meant for adults completely freeze when asked to describe a memory?
And that was when it started making sense.
Looking back, the signs had always been there—I just hadn’t connected them yet.
The huge meltdowns. The deep emotional intensity. The way he had taught himself to read at an age when most children were just beginning to recognize letters. His ability to hyperfocus on his interests, disappearing into worlds of dinosaurs, space, and coding, absorbing information like a sponge. His advanced problem-solving skills—evident in the way he effortlessly assembled intricate Lego sets far beyond his age level.
And yet, daily life felt like an uphill battle. Writing was a struggle. Routines were a constant power struggle. I would repeat the same instructions over and over again, only for him to seem as though he hadn’t heard me at all. Even his younger brother had started reminding him to get through the bedtime routine.
How could a child who was so bright, so capable in some areas, struggle so profoundly with things that seemed so simple?
I wrestled with the contradiction. Was I expecting too much? Was I failing him somehow?
His elementary school teacher was the first to suggest that he might be gifted. But I dismissed it almost immediately.
If he was struggling this much, how could he possibly be gifted?
It wasn’t just one moment but a series of them. The late-night Google searches, the deep dives into parenting forums, the stories from other parents whose children sounded just like mine. The slow realization that what I had dismissed as quirks or struggles to “work through” were actually pieces of a larger picture.
When the evaluation confirmed both his giftedness and his struggles—what’s known as twice-exceptionality (2e)—everything suddenly made sense.
Twice-exceptional kids are both gifted and have additional learning challenges. High ability can coexist with real struggles that aren’t always immediately obvious. It explained why he could hyperfocus on a topic that fascinated him but be wildly distractible with everyday tasks. Why he could solve complex problems yet melt down when faced with a simple worksheet.
I had been so focused on his challenges that I hadn’t seen his exceptional strengths for what they were.
When we finally had an answer, I felt a mix of relief and guilt.
Relief, because I finally understood what was happening.
Guilt, because I hadn’t seen it sooner.
I’m an occupational therapist. Even though I hadn’t worked in pediatrics, shouldn’t I have noticed the signs? Shouldn’t I have trusted my gut instead of believing the well-meaning reassurances from other parents—those who told me all kids throw tantrums, all kids struggle sometimes, that he would grow out of it?
I see now that those reassurances, though meant to comfort me, had kept me from seeking answers sooner. I had doubted my instincts. I had focused on the wrong questions.
But guilt doesn’t change the past. It only steals from the present.
There’s no point in looking back with regret. Now, we focus on equipping him with the tools and skills he needs to thrive. We meet him where he is, not where the world expects him to be.
I no longer try to force him into molds that weren’t made for him. Instead, I help him understand himself—to build on his strengths, work through his challenges, and grow into the person he is meant to be.
And in doing so, I am learning just as much as he is.
If you’re in that space of uncertainty, wondering whether to trust your instincts — I was there too. For years, I explained things away, collected the reassurances, and tried to stop worrying.
The diagnosis didn’t change who he was. It just gave me a way to finally see him clearly.
That’s still what I’m learning to do.
Understanding my son also led me to understand myself. That threshold is in When You Start Wondering About Yourself. The diagnosis that followed — when an ADHD assessment turned into an autism one — is in Expected ADHD, Got Autism. And the gifted-and-autistic profile that came back in his evaluation turned out to be mine, too — that essay is The Wrong Operating System. The longer story of his meltdowns, what I read them as for years and what I read them as now, is in Meltdowns vs Tantrums.
New essays, delivered as I write them. Quiet, occasional, no noise.
Grow with Their Flow 