When I start formulating an outline of what I want to write about, questions hum beneath my thoughts: How will I ensure clarity and warmth come through in my words? Where is the line between honesty and self-pity? How can I invite readers to listen without lecturing? Today, those murmurs shaped every line of the messages I traded with a friend. As I reread them, an emerging pattern becomes clear: a mind that insists on growth, tension held like a drawn bow between confidence and hesitation, and a wish to share ideas captivating enough to be lifted by a passing breeze.

I joked that if scientists scanned my brain, they would marvel at its childlike nature. To be fair, many people in my life already do. This is a side effect of devouring superhero comics as a kid. I longed for powers of my own so, in my overactive imagination, I became elastic-armed brainiac Reed Richards (a.k.a. Mr. Fantastic of the Fantastic Four)… minus the stretching. But beneath the whimsy lies a real phenomenon: neuroplasticity.

It isn’t mere jargon. Neuroplasticity is the brain’s lifelong capacity to rewire, forge new cells, and prune old ones. It’s the engine that lets a musician learn a new riff, a writer dismantle a stubborn paragraph, or any of us recover quickly from a misstep. Just as some people have genetic advantages that make achieving a six-pack more feasible, others may have neurological structures that give them a head start toward genius-level cognition. I’ll admit: when asked what makes you special, it would be much easier to flaunt my non-existent abs than unpack parieto-frontal integration theory.

Much like physical fitness, intelligence is shaped by genetic predisposition, early development, environmental influences, and effort. Each time I wrestle with a fresh insight or untangle a complex argument, I can feel my neural pathways sharpening. Brawn grows from stress and repair, and though by different means, I believe brains similarly develop through usage. And so, I return to those humming questions, each one a rep in my intellectual workout.

I’ve logged mental miles in books, maxed out on reps of paragraph rewrites until exhaustion, and pursued new ideas like a runner chasing the horizon. When others finished their work and declared it “good enough,” I’d shrug and ask myself, “Good enough for whom?” My bar wasn’t set by nods of approval but by a deeper insistence that I wasn’t here to blend into the background. Childhood taunts taught me that my presence could be a burden, so I lifted my standards higher in order to prove I belonged; partly as armor, partly by choice. 

Each late‐night page turned and essay I revised was another set in my neural gym. I forged resilience from trauma and curiosity into real strength. Years later, with a bunch of help from others, I’ve finally been able to start working on this dirty rock to reveal the valuable gemstone inside. I may not have grown up to be a superhero, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still do great things. I’ve started jokingly calling myself Organic Intelligence, because I take in everything around me and adapt it to benefit me. Every book, every paper, and every experience I’ve ever had, good or bad, has added up to become who I am today. 

When I’m done writing, as a cool-down, I always read one last time and double-check to make sure I answered my own questions. Did I thread clarity and warmth through every line? Was I able to deliver honesty without begging for sympathy? Did you feel welcomed and understood? When I’m satisfied I’ve earned this workout, I can finally rest. Time to log off and hit the showers.

Close-up photo of a brown and tan moth