What I Wish I Knew – As A Mother

Raising a highly talented child in a world that often fails to see beyond conventional success is a deeply emotional, soul-shaping journey. It’s filled with moments of awe—and moments of heartbreak. I wish I could go back to those early days and tell myself it’s okay to not have all the answers. That love, fierce and unwavering, would become both my compass and my courage.

What I wish I knew earlier is that brilliance wears many disguises. It doesn’t always come with straight A’s or perfect behavior. Sometimes it comes as intensity—big emotions, endless questions, a quiet withdrawal when the world feels too loud. Sometimes it’s misunderstood as rebellion or labelled as ‘difficult.’ And sometimes, it goes completely unseen.

I remember the tears behind closed doors, the long conversations with teachers who didn’t see what I saw, and the ache of watching my child shrink in spaces that couldn’t hold their spirit. I questioned myself endlessly. Was I failing them? Was I too soft, too fierce, too idealistic? I didn’t realise then that the world often expects children to conform before it’s willing to understand them.

And then, there were the lonelier moments—the kind no one prepares you for. When friends distanced themselves. When even family members, the ones you hoped would understand, chose to minimise or dismiss what you were navigating. When your own community stood in silence, or worse, in quiet judgment. I wish I had known that sometimes, standing up for your child means standing alone. And that kind of strength—though forged in isolation—is the truest kind of love.

But I’ve learned.

I’ve learned that being a mother to a gifted child means being their fiercest advocate, even when your voice shakes. It means challenging systems that don’t accommodate difference, and doing so with clarity and grace. It means creating room for rest and joy, not just achievement. Because the weight of giftedness is real, and sometimes, what our children need most is not more stimulation—but more stillness.

I’ve learned that emotional safety is the foundation of any learning, and that connection always comes before correction. I’ve learned to pause, to listen between the words, to sit with my child in their moments of overwhelm and remind them they are not broken—they are brilliant.

I’ve also learned to forgive myself. For the moments I missed, the words I wish I had spoken differently, the times I second-guessed what my heart already knew. We are learning too. And that learning is part of the legacy we pass on to our children.

Now, I see the beauty in their questions, their quirks, their quiet wisdom. I see the spark in their eyes when they feel seen—not for how well they perform, but for who they are. I see how their difference is their strength. And I’m no longer afraid to stand beside them in that difference, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when the world doesn’t applaud.

This is not just a story of parenting. It is a story of growth, of love that deepens through challenge, of learning to lead with the heart when the map runs out.

So if you find yourself in this place—wondering if you’re doing it right, wondering if anyone else understands—please know: you are not alone. And neither is your child.

Keep going. Keep believing. Keep building the world that sees them.

Not with apology, but with fierce, unwavering purpose.— Dr. Neha Sharma