Unmasking missed identification
Amanda Larkin
My mum was told in the 1980s that girls do not get ADHD.
She did not believe them. Instead, she kept every medical report and school report. Thirty years later, those documents became the evidence I needed for a diagnosis that should have been recognised decades earlier.
Reading those reports now, they practically scream twice-exceptional.
Does not answer the question.
Distracted.
Could achieve so much more if she just paid attention.
Wasting her potential.
Wasting her parents' money on tutors and still only scraping through.
Attendance dropping.
There was no "school can't" back then. It was just called wagging.
I spent most of my life believing I simply was not very smart.
My ATAR equivalent was not high enough for university. I entered teaching through a side door, a non-direct pathway after a gap year, already convinced I was less capable than everyone around me.
My brain did not work the way school expected.
I could research for hours. Fall down rabbit holes of curiosity. Read endlessly. Learn constantly. But essays stayed unfinished. Deadlines slipped past. The Masters that began in 2003 never quite made it to the end. Crafts and projects piled in a shed with the moniker, “The Mausoleum of Lost Crafts.” Jobs lasted a few years before frustration and itchy feet set in and I moved on.
For fifteen years of teaching, I masked. Every day felt like I was an imposter who was getting away with something. Like someone would eventually realise I did not really belong there.
Then my children were identified as twice-exceptional.
I did what I did best when I needed answers. I hyper-focused. I read everything. I researched late into the night. I learned how to advocate for them in systems that were not built to see them clearly.
After fifteen years working with teenagers, I had already seen the pattern. I knew intelligence and school results were not the same thing. The research simply gave a name to what I had been seeing all along, along with the language and evidence to advocate for it.
As I learned, I quickly started seeing my students differently too. The quiet ones. The frustrated ones. The ones who were bright but somehow never quite fit the expectation of reaching their potential.
Then the advocacy part came quickly. It was not a lightbulb moment. It was a fierce need for justice. Justice for my children, justice for the students I had missed, and justice for future students so that they would never fall through the gaps on my watch.
When someone mentioned that giftedness could be genetic, I laughed. Not a shy knowing giggle, but a deep-seated ironic chortle.
The ADHD maybe.
But giftedness? Not a chance.
After the tireless nagging from supportive friends with kids like mine, I eventually agreed to an IQ assessment.
When the results came back, I stared at the numbers in disbelief.
How could that possibly be true?
How could someone with those results have spent decades struggling to pass almost every formal learning experience she had ever had?
Accepting that intelligence and school results are not the same thing was easy when I was advocating for children.
Accepting that the same truth applied to me has taken far longer. It is still ongoing.
Now I am learning something new.
How to unmask.
How to speak to myself with compassion.
How to be authentically myself.
My friends jokingly call me The Velvet Sledgehammer. An advocate who pushes back against systems that overlook the very learners they are meant to serve.
My voice is varied, but it is far from rare.
A girl who was unseen as a learner.
A perfectionist.
A people pleaser.
A self gas lighter who believed she was below average on the smarts scale.
This is why the theme of Gifted Awareness Week, Varied Voices, Shared Future, matters.
Because giftedness does not always look the way we expect. Sometimes it looks like unfinished assignments. Falling attendance. Bright ideas that never make it onto the page. Sometimes it looks like a girl whose potential is written about in every report but never quite understood, supported and allowed to grow wings and fly.
My future now is dedicated to amplifying those varied voices. The voices of our asynchronous, neurodivergent, gifted children so that they do not need to use their voices in order to be seen. That being seen is a given, not a privilege of luck or context.
So that their varied voices are part of a shared future that is supported and understood long before they reach their forties and realise they were never the problem. A future where the narrow expectation of what giftedness is supposed to look like is a distant memory, replaced by recognition of the beautiful variety of gifted expression.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this blog are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the AAEGT.
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