With confident self-assurance, one of my friends once announced to me and my parents during a casual high school hangout: “I can sleep through my first period and arrive after the lecture is over—no one takes attendance. I still have an A in that class.” He was talking about his college freshman-level calculus class, streamed into our high school for top STEM students. I remember sitting there, dumbfounded. I couldn’t imagine ever letting my foot off the gas to that extent.
From day one of high school, everything seemed harder for me than for my peers. I genuinely enjoyed high school, but I always knew I had to work twice as hard to achieve the same results others got with much less effort—both academically and socially. Starting my freshman year, I set my sights on qualifying for the Zell Miller Scholarship. I painstakingly calculated my unweighted GPA twice a year, learned how to unweight it myself, researched which classes counted, and carefully balanced my schedule so one misstep wouldn’t throw off my entire plan. Careful measurement, constant readjustment, and pushing through sheer exhaustion defined my high school years.
Looking back, the only year I wasn’t dealing with a physical or mental health issue was junior year—and that was a really good year. Even before I had the words for it, I knew I was struggling: mood swings, painful periods, and social confusion. I prayed a lot and tried to exercise as much as I could to manage everything, but I still lived with a baseline of struggle and exhaustion. My body, mind, and spirit seemed to take turns pulling me under the turbulent waves of adolescence, but I always managed to pop back up and follow my North Star: academic excellence. It wasn’t about thinking I was better than anyone else; if I wasn’t working towards an academic goal, I was afraid I would drown.
This relentless drive cost me immensely, but it paid off—I reached my goal. Whenever something went wrong socially, or I felt sad, I poured myself into my schoolwork. It wasn’t a perfect coping mechanism, but it kept me moving forward. At the same time, I longed for others to recognize my efforts. Administrators only seemed to reward students who excelled in sports while carrying a heavy academic load. Pursuing excellence with undiagnosed disabilities didn’t matter. It hurt to realize I was exerting so much more effort than my peers, only to see others celebrated by the adults in power while I remained invisible. It felt like a sign from the outside world that I didn’t belong, even as I strove for academic excellence.
Part of why I want to share my high school journey is that, from the outside—including to my parents—it looked like I was thriving. In some ways, I was: I excelled in all my AP history classes. But I was also drowning in chronic fatigue, loneliness, and anxiety. I enjoyed those classes, and I always struggled to make sense of what I experienced internally—the turmoil and the joy of learning. There’s a podcaster who has said that pursuing high grades with a vengeance can be a trauma response, just like drinking to excess can be for young people. I believe I was responding to the trauma of moving through life with chronic conditions being undiagnosed. No one understood what I was dealing with, and I reached for a distraction that I could safely use. I loved certain aspects of sports, but I didn’t feel I could engage when my siblings and those younger than me were so much better than I was.
This story is not a sob story without a happy ending. At 23, I received my autism diagnosis and so began the path of understanding my health. Now, at the age of 31, I have received my PMOS and hEDS diagnoses as well. I’ve passed my CPACC exam, which is a global standard for professionals who want to contribute to accessibility for people across the disability spectrum. I think it’s important that teachers, parents, and other adults involved in the lives of young people pay attention when the pursuit of grades becomes an obsession.
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