“You’re Too Smart to Be Struggling With This

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,110 words It always starts as a compliment. “You’re so articulate.” “You’re really sharp.” “You don’t seem like you’d have trouble with this.” And then, when I hit a wall— “You’re too smart to be struggling with this.” That sentence has followed me from childhood through adulthood like a shadow I didn’t ask for. Not just confusing. Not just dismissive. It’s a full-body erasure. A slap disguised as praise. Because here’s what it tells me: My intelligence should cancel out my experience. My brain’s ability to process some things quickly means I shouldn’t have any problems at all.

The first time I remember hearing it, I was seven. I was crying in class because I didn’t understand the directions on a math worksheet. I wasn’t the only one confused. But I was the only one having a meltdown over it. The teacher crouched down next to me and whispered, “You’re too smart for this. You’ll figure it out.” Then she walked away. And that’s when I learned that being smart wasn’t help. It was pressure.

Autistic masking doesn’t just mean hiding distress. It means overperforming where you can, to make up for all the places people don’t give you grace. I figured out early that if I could speak well, spell well, write well— they might leave me alone about the other stuff. The noise sensitivity. The panic around group projects. The shutdowns when I got interrupted too many times. So I got good at some things. Really good. And I got praised for it. And then I got stuck with it.

Because the moment you show competence, people stop believing your struggles. If I aced the essay, I shouldn’t be crying in the cafeteria. If I gave a great presentation, I shouldn’t need to go home and lie in the dark for six hours. If I used a big word, I shouldn’t stumble through basic forms or forget my lunch again. But I did. I still do. I’ve had to advocate for accommodations in the same breath as explaining my degrees. I’ve had to justify needing time off for burnout while proving I could lead a team. I’ve had to explain that understanding complex ideas doesn’t mean I can sit in fluorescent lighting without pain. Or survive a last-minute schedule change without spiraling.

“You’re too smart to be struggling with this” feels like a trap. It assumes intelligence is a blanket. That it covers everything. That it protects. But for people like me, it’s often the opposite. It becomes the very reason we don’t get support. Because people think struggle only belongs to people who look like they need help. And I don’t always look like that. Until I do.

I used to think I had to pick a lane. Either I was competent and capable— or I was struggling and needed support. I couldn’t be both. So I chose competence. I pushed through. I figured things out on my own. I used every bit of brainpower I had to predict and prevent the next derailment. And when I failed? I blamed myself for not trying hard enough. Not realizing that it wasn’t effort I lacked— it was understanding. From others. From systems. From the world I was supposed to fit into, but didn’t.

People say “You’re too smart to be struggling” because they’ve been taught that visible skill cancels invisible pain. But autism doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t ask for your résumé. It doesn’t care how many books you’ve read or how fast you can process metaphors. It shows up in the gaps. The transitions. The daily demands that pile up until something snaps. Smart doesn’t stop a meltdown. Smart doesn’t make sensory overload hurt less. Smart doesn’t cancel shutdowns. Smart doesn’t protect you from a world built around norms that were never designed with you in mind.

Even now, I hesitate before disclosing anything. Because I know what happens once people peg me as “high-functioning.” (Which, by the way, is a garbage term. High-functioning just means your suffering makes other people more comfortable.) People expect me to be fine. To bounce back. To explain myself clearly. To keep performing wellness, even when I’m quietly unraveling. They don’t want to hear that I can write a full-length manuscript but freeze at the grocery store when the self-checkout voice is too loud. That I can lead a workshop but need recovery time if someone changes the seating arrangement last-minute. Because in their world, one cancels out the other. In mine, they coexist.

I’m not too smart to be struggling. I’m too aware of how my struggles get dismissed when they don’t look like what people expect. And I’m done shrinking to keep up that illusion. AWRYTE is where I get to say: I can be brilliant and broken down. Articulate and overwhelmed. Insightful and struggling. All at the same time. Because intelligence is not the opposite of disability. It’s not the cure for difference. It’s just one part of who I am. And it doesn’t cancel out the parts of me still asking for space, support, and softness.