By Max Wang
In school and sports, talent is often explained with one simple word: “gifted.” A student earns high grades, and people assume natural intelligence. An athlete improves quickly, and people assume unusual physical ability. The word is meant kindly; it is a compliment, a form of recognition, and often an attempt to explain why someone performs well. But “gifted” is not as simple as it sounds.
The definition of “gifted” is—according to Merriam-Webster—“having great natural ability.” That definition is not necessarily wrong, but it is incomplete. It makes talent sound like a fixed quality, something a person either has or does not have. In reality, the word often does more than describe ability. It often creates an expectation; once a student or athlete is called gifted often enough, the label can define not only what others think of that person, but also what that person feels obligated to become.
This is especially concerning in high school, when identity is still developing. Psychologist Erik Erikson described adolescence as the stage of “identity vs. role confusion,” a period in which young people begin forming a clearer sense of who they are and what role they occupy. Whether we notice it or not, we all have experienced it: Students are sorted, formally and informally, into categories: the athlete, the honors student, the quiet kid, the leader, the naturally smart one, the naturally strong one. Usually, these labels are harmless, sometimes benefitting the student. But when a label becomes too closely attached to identity, it can limit the person it was meant to praise.
“Gifted” is one of the easiest labels to accept because it sounds positive. Unlike criticism, it does not feel restrictive on the first pass. A student praised as gifted may feel proud. Likewise, an athlete considered naturally talented may feel encouraged. There is no denying how real confidence can come from being recognized early. The problem is that confidence can become fragile when it depends on always appearing capable and consistent. If someone is “gifted,” success can begin to feel normal, while struggle can feel like a blaring pimple to hide.
“Gifted” does not initially feel restrictive… but does it create fragility?
That is where the label becomes uncomfortable—a bad test, a poor practice, or a missed attempt does not feel like an ordinary mistake. It has the ability to undermine the identity others have created around you. In that moment, you face the fear that failure reveals something deeper.
I remember experiencing this during a performance of Shakespeare’s Richard III. At one point, I forgot my lines. There was no complicated explanation for it. I was not facing an unusually difficult opponent or solving an advanced problem under pressure. Quite simply, I blanked while other people were standing there waiting for me to continue. This reveals something that remains overlooked: the idea of being “gifted” means very little in moments of mishap. I did not feel naturally capable or unusually prepared. I felt like a person who had made a visible mistake.
Failure of that type is important because it unveils what can hide behind the label. Being called gifted does not prevent panic, confusion, embarrassment, or ordinary human error. It does not make someone immune to blanking on stage, missing a lift, losing a match, or misunderstanding a lesson. If anything, the label can make those moments harder because they seem to conflict with the image a person is expected to maintain.
The same pattern appears in academics. In a challenging class, a student may read through material, fail to understand it immediately, and feel not just confused but exposed. In AP Biology, for example, topics such as signal transduction or cellular respiration quickly became overwhelming for me. I reviewed G proteins, adenylyl cyclase, cAMP, and phosphorylation cascades and would think, “Why am I not getting this already?” instead of the more reasonable thought: “I need to study this more carefully.”
My AP Biology review notes. The amount of preparation behind them challenges the assumption that academic success comes from natural ability alone.
The “gifted” label often encourages the first reaction. It can make students feel that needing help is evidence that they were overrated. It can also make effort feel strangely risky. If a student does poorly after barely preparing, there is an excuse. But if that same student studies seriously and still struggles, the result feels more personal. In other words, that fear is not confined to failure; it is the loss of an identity built around talent.
This dissonance also shows up in sports; physical titans notwithstanding, athletic development eventually exposes everyone. Natural strength, speed, coordination, and instincts can matter a great deal at the beginning. Some athletes do move better than others early on. Some lifters seem to understand technique quickly. I was one of them. Additionally, as a fencer, I noticed some developed a sense of distance or timing faster than expected. These advantages are real, and pretending they do not exist would be dishonest.
However, natural ability rarely remains enough. In any sport, the level eventually rises. The naturally fast athlete meets someone just as fast but more disciplined. The strong lifter reaches weights that cannot be moved through strength alone. At that point, the explanation “gifted” becomes too small. It may describe the beginning of the story, but it does not explain the rest.
Me pushing through a heavy deadlift; progression still depends on repetition and the willingness to struggle.
What follows talent is usually repetition, correction, frustration, and failure. This is why athletic development is rarely captured well by early labels. Tom Brady is one of the clearest examples. Before he became one of the most accomplished quarterbacks in football history, he was selected 199th overall in the 2000 NFL Draft. His draft position did not suggest future dominance, and his physical testing did not create the image of a prodigy. At the NFL Combine, Brady ran a 5.28-second 40-yard dash, a number that has since become part of his story precisely because it seemed so ordinary.
Brady’s career is useful not because it proves that talent does not matter, but because it shows how incomplete early judgments can be. A slow sprint time or an unimpressive first impression can become a label of its own. Just as being called “gifted” can create pressure, not being recognized as gifted can hint at limitations. Brady’s development challenged that assumption—whatever natural ability he had was still shaped through years of repetition, preparation, correction, and adaptation.
High school students are especially vulnerable to this because they are still developing: Bodies change, interests change, and confidence grows. Someone who starts slowly in a sport may become excellent after years of consistent training. A student who struggles in one class may later become strong in that subject. Early ability is not the sole deciding factor of the outcome. For that reason, giftedness should be understood carefully. It may describe potential, but it should not erase effort. Similarly, it may identify a strength, but it should not become a performance contract. The more useful question is not whether someone is gifted; Instead it is what that person does when the label wears off.
A healthier culture around achievement would praise ability without turning it into a gorilla cage. It would recognize talent while still giving grace for confusion, effort, failure, and slow improvement. Students and athletes should be reminded that growth is not reserved for people who looked impressive from the start. Having a talent may open a door, but it does not carry anyone through it. What matters more is whether a person continues to grow after the label loses its purpose. As renowned psychologist Carol Dweck put it in Mindset: The New Psychology of Success, “No matter what your ability is, effort is what ignites that ability and turns it into accomplishment.”
