Twice-exceptional (2e) individuals live at the intersection of brilliance and struggle. It’s a paradox that isn’t just academic—it’s deeply personal. For me, it’s the reason I could ace an AP Calculus exam on three hours of sleep and stolen vodka but spend the rest of the day questioning why the hell I bothered. It’s why I thrived as a student, worker, and entrepreneur, yet still found myself spiraling into anxiety, burnout, or self-doubt at every turn. And it’s why my story, like so many other 2e stories, is one of contradictions.
To understand what it means to be 2e is to understand the tension between potential and pitfalls, between the gift of insight and the weight of complexity. It’s excelling in ways others can’t imagine while simultaneously feeling like you’re stumbling through life in a fog. It’s a constant negotiation between too much and not enough. Let me show you what that looks like.
Third Grade: The Separation Paradox
In third grade, I was moved to the “Gifted” class—a label that should have been validating but felt anything but. I wasn’t striving for perfection. In fact, the material was too easy for me, and the separation from my peers felt isolating. I didn’t want to be "special" if it meant losing connection. So, the following year, I went back to the regular classes, not because I couldn’t handle the challenge but because I wanted to feel normal.
This moment captures what Dabrowski’s Theory of Positive Disintegration might call an early awakening of inner conflict. My cognitive intensity wanted growth, complexity, and stimulation, but my emotional intensity craved belonging. The two pulled at each other like tectonic plates, creating cracks that would later define my life.
High School: When Excellence Feels Meaningless
By high school, I had mastered the art of effortlessness. I could party until 2AM, wake up hungover, and still crush my AP Calculus exam or set the curve in a physics test. My peers couldn’t make sense of me—hell, I couldn’t make sense of me. I wasn’t striving to be the best; I just was. Not because I worked harder but because my brain operated differently. School was a system I knew how to game without even trying.
But success felt hollow. I wasn’t interested in the gold stars or the GPAs. I was interested in life—messy, chaotic, exhilarating life. I started a business printing report cards for classmates who wanted to obscure their actual grades. I partied with people who weren’t on the SAT track and then turned around and scored the highest in the school on that same test. It wasn’t rebellion; it was curiosity. What happens if you live on the edge of the system and still win?
Dabrowski would call this the first layer of disintegration: the moment when the rules of society lose their grip because they no longer feel meaningful. For me, it wasn’t just about breaking the rules—it was about testing them, seeing what happened when I danced on the line between brilliance and recklessness.
College: The Long Road to Self-Discovery
By the time I reached college, the stakes had changed. I still excelled academically, but for the first time, anxiety crept in. I was medicated, struggling with the weight of adult responsibilities I’d taken on early. By 20, I was married. By 21, I owned a house. By 22, I was running my own small business while finishing my degree.
It took me 5.5 years to graduate, not because I couldn’t handle the coursework but because I didn’t see the point of rushing. I wanted to learn about life, not just what the textbooks could teach me. Entrepreneurship classes felt sterile compared to the messiness of running a business. I worked almost full-time throughout school, not out of necessity but because I was hungry for experience.
This was positive disintegration at its finest—the slow peeling back of societal expectations to reveal deeper truths about who I was and what I valued. I wasn’t just learning; I was becoming. But becoming is messy, and it doesn’t fit neatly into a syllabus or a five-year plan.
Adulthood: The Climb and the Fall
After college, I entered the corporate world, where my paradoxical nature was both a strength and a liability. My creativity and empathy made me a standout leader in software product management, but my neurocomplexity made me hard to understand. I thrived in leadership roles but eventually burned out, was misunderstood, or clashed with rigid systems that couldn’t accommodate my unconventional style.
I was fired, laid off, or quit multiple times—not because I wasn’t good at my job but because I was too much for the systems I was in. I wanted to innovate while others wanted to maintain. I wanted to lead with empathy while others demanded conformity. Success became a cycle of climbing to the top and then crashing back down.
Eventually, I stepped off the ladder. I took a lower-paying, less demanding role, not out of failure but out of intention. I needed space to focus on what truly mattered: my startup, AIs and Shine. It’s a self-reflection tool that combines generative AI and frameworks I’ve designed from years of introspection. Ironically, it’s both a passion project and a mirror of my own complexity—a way to understand myself while offering the same gift to others.
The Paradox of Being Neurocomplex
Being twice-exceptional means living in constant contradiction. It means being capable of extraordinary things but feeling out of sync with the world. It means excelling in systems that were never built for you, only to reject those same systems when they fail to bring meaning.
For me, the journey has been one of positive disintegration—a process of breaking down the constructs I was born into and rebuilding my life in a way that aligns with who I truly am. It hasn’t been easy. It’s been messy, painful, and often misunderstood. But it’s also been exhilarating, rewarding, and deeply meaningful.
The lesson, if there is one, is this: being neurocomplex isn’t about fitting into the world’s expectations. It’s about creating your own rules, embracing the contradictions, and finding the courage to live authentically—even when the path is anything but straight.
Conclusion: Dancing on the Line
I’ve spent my life dancing on the line between too much and not enough. Between excelling and imploding. Between following the rules and rewriting them entirely. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the line itself is where the magic happens.
This is the paradox of twice-exceptionality: to be both extraordinary and deeply human. To succeed while struggling. To break apart and rebuild, over and over again. And in that paradox, I’ve found not just my path but my purpose.