"Gifted Kid Burnout" by Kai Wilkie

Symptoms Include

I’m the first to raise my hand,
answering questions before anyone else can blink,
my voice barreling out, too eager to wait
for the praise that crowns me the best.

My mom’s always got projects from teachers,
stacked report cards with their bright A’s.
They tell her, “Her curiosity is beyond our pace;
keeping her focused has been... a challenge.”

Soon I’m placed in a special program,
stuck in a too-quiet room with other kids who stare,
just as lost, just as thrown-off.
They hand us workbooks, textbooks, and say
we’re smart enough to teach ourselves—
we’re “ahead.”

The pressure builds, and my mom’s happier with me
than she’s been in years. I’m her star, her prodigy.
She tells me I’ll never fail, I’ll never stumble.
And I am proud.

Irritability

Teachers say “gifted” like it’s a prize I’ve won,
but it’s only a burden they stack on my eleven-year-old shoulders.
The sound of my own name grates on me,
even from my mother, who wears pride like a badge.

I can’t be angry, can’t bite the hand that feeds—
but how do I feel grateful for a hand
that handed me responsibility
when I still needed one to hold?

So I swallow my frustration, put on a smile,
watch my mother’s face light up each time I succeed,
wondering if she notices the weight I carry
or only the bright reflection of who I might become.

Apathy

By sixth grade, I’m tired.
No handholding, no help.
I’m expected to carry it alone,
and my teacher’s sharp when I slip or forget.

My mother’s in disbelief. How can her prize, her star,
the kid who’d lit up her pride,
start to fall behind, slipping grades one by one?

The As I can no longer reach
are an invisible noose,
tightening around me like a rusted necklace,
and I can’t bring myself to care.

Isolation

By seventh grade, I stop trying.
I shut my door before anyone knocks,
though my mom knocks anyway, her voice sharp
before she even steps in.

I brace myself, as she asks why I’m always in my room,
why I don’t talk to her anymore.
But I can’t tell her her words are knives,
slicing into the “me” she once loved.

So I stay silent. It’s easier than answering.
She says she doesn’t recognize me,
and truthfully, neither do I.

I push everyone away.
It’s safer like this—no one expects anything
from the kid who’s gone silent.
No one can see me unraveling
behind this closed door.
It’s just me now.
Even that’s too much.

             
Kayliegh “Kai” Wilkie, Waldorf senior, zombie-cowboy aficionado, and plant parent to a Venus Flytrap named Twooey, can often be found haunting the library. With an iPad in one hand and a sketchbook in the other, they look like they’re either plotting world domination—or maybe just the perfect doodle.