In 1981, we left behind the red and gold leaves of New York—the tall maples and oaks that lined our street—for Miami’s skinny palm trees and walls of heat. I traded crisp fall air for sweat behind my knees, frizzy hair, and mosquitoes that never quit. Everything felt sticky, loud, and strange.
When I started sixth grade, the school took one look at my wheelchair and placed me in a classroom for students with both physical and intellectual disabilities. While the other kids practiced tying their shoes, I sat there watching Captain Kangaroo. I knew something was off. So I told my mom.
She didn’t walk into the school quietly. She arrived in heels, purse on her arm, accent crisp and impossible to ignore. She didn’t shout. She didn’t have to. Her presence alone shifted the room. Her words (whatever she said)made it clear the school had made a serious mistake.
They tested me. And sure enough, I was Gifted. Once again, they recommended having me skip to the next grade level. My mom knew they were doing it to remove me, their problem. She said no.
After that, they moved me into a mainstream class and arranged for me to attend a college-level pull-out program on certain days. I studied extrasensory perception (ESP) and as odd as it sounds, I loved it. It gave my mind something to stretch into, something bigger than spelling drills or silent worksheets.
Still, I wasn’t sure if I was receiving the same Gifted support as others. There was a girl in my class who disappeared once a week. No one ever said where she went. I didn’t ask, and no one offered to tell me.
Years later, I realized she was probably attending the school’s official Gifted enrichment program. I don’t know why I wasn’t included. Maybe they didn’t see me that way. Maybe they didn’t want to bother. Or maybe my mom chose a different route on purpose, quietly steering me toward what she believed would serve me better.
Whatever the reason, I stayed in the classroom. But my education began to split in two.
Junior high brought some relief. I took advanced classes, joined electives, and finally found myself in rooms that encouraged critical thinking. I got the stimulation I needed. But it didn’t happen because the system supported me. It happened because people fought for me—my teachers, my mom, and eventually, me.
Before Florida, I went to a small public school for students with physical disabilities in Albertson, New York. At the time, it was called Human Resources School. Today, it’s known as the Henry Viscardi School at The Viscardi Center.
The school didn’t offer a Gifted program, but the staff saw I needed more. Their solution? They turned me into their helper. I worked with teachers, assisted the principal, and even joined the sixth graders for French class.
At one point, they considered moving me up several grades. My mother said no. She wasn’t afraid of my intelligence. She was protecting my childhood. She wanted me to be with kids my age, to enjoy a sense of normalcy in a world that already saw me as different.
Looking back, I see how right she was. She protected both my mind and my heart.
I still carry that duality today. Giftedness doesn’t disappear after graduation. It doesn’t fade with time. You don’t trade it for a job title or bury it under bills and diagnoses. I still crave mental stimulation. I still want to learn. I thrive when I get to think deeply, explore ideas, create, and ask difficult questions.
Giftedness isn’t just an academic label. It’s how my brain works. It’s a way of moving through the world—always seeking meaning, connection, and complexity. But living in a disabled body means people often assume less. They look at my chair and expect silence, not insight. They act surprised when I contribute to a layered discussion. They assume the mobility device speaks louder than my mind.
It doesn’t.
I still think about that girl who disappeared once a week. I still wonder what her program looked like, what they gave her that I never received. Maybe it doesn’t matter now. My path was different. It still is.
Even as an adult, I didn’t fully understand that some of the disconnect I felt with others wasn’t always about my disability. It wasn’t always about osteogenesis imperfecta or using a manual wheelchair. Sometimes, it was my mind. I’ve always craved deep, layered conversation. Small talk never felt satisfying.
Even when I became a teacher, I noticed it. While I love working with middle school students, I’m most alive when we push past the basics—when we dig into the deeper ideas that live underneath the surface of the subject.
That same desire for more led me to create a Substack account. I realized I wasn’t the only one looking for depth. I wasn’t the only one hungry for conversations that didn’t fit into a tweet or a Facebook post. There were others—gifted, curious, intense—just like me. And they were looking for each other too.
And still, so often when society recognizes a disabled person’s skill or talent, it becomes a headline: Look what they accomplished—even with a disability.
But maybe that person isn’t an exception.
Maybe they’re Gifted.
Maybe they were never labeled that way in school.
Maybe their brilliance was always there, just overlooked, misread, or wrapped in the wrong narrative.
That question—the one I couldn’t form back then—lingers even now:
How many of us were never seen?
How many physically disabled students flew under the radar—not because we weren’t bright enough, but because no one thought to look?
How many of us sat through lessons we’d already mastered, while the part of us that needed challenge, needed engagement, quietly shut down?
How many of us were told, by omission or assumption, that we couldn’t be both?
The National Association for Gifted Children estimates that twice-exceptional students—those who are both gifted and disabled—make up around six percent of the gifted population. But numbers only tell part of the story. The real question is: Where are we now?
I want to hear from the ones who got overlooked. The ones who were never tested. The ones who had their curiosity mistaken for troublemaking, their insights brushed aside, their potential packed away like something inconvenient.
If that was you—if that is you—I hope you know: you are not alone.
You are not the exception. You are part of a community that deserves to be seen, heard, and challenged.
Let’s talk. Let’s learn. Let’s light up the room like only gifted, disabled people can.
💬 Want to keep this conversation going? Join me on Substack, where I write more about disability, brilliance, and the space in between. I’d love to hear your story too.
👉 https://substack.com/@latinadivaonwheels
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And if you want a little flashback, check out an article that I wrote a long time ago, but it still holds the same truths. Click here.