Success Addict: A Gifted Student’s Dilemma

There’s a moment in Arthur C. Brooks’ 2020 article for The Atlantic that stopped me in my tracks. He writes, "I would prefer to be special than happy."

Let that sink in for a second.

Brooks, a social scientist and former president of the American Enterprise Institute, isn’t being flippant. He’s describing a truth that many high-achieving people wrestle with—this deep, often unspoken belief that being recognized, being extraordinary, being "somebody" is worth more than peace, contentment, or even happiness. And while the article is titled “Success Addicts Choose Being Special Over Being Happy,” it could just as easily have been subtitled "Notes from a Gifted Kid All Grown Up.”

Because that’s who I thought of immediately—gifted and talented students, especially those enrolled in highly competitive or specialized schools. Students who have always been praised not just for what they do but for who they are. The smart ones. The advanced ones. The ones with "so much potential."

Brooks lays out a compelling argument that the pursuit of success functions like an addiction. It activates the same dopamine reward circuits in the brain, offering short-term satisfaction that quickly fades. The result? A relentless cycle of chasing the next goal, the next accolade, the next reason to feel worthy. And, like any addiction, there are side effects: burnout, isolation, anxiety, and, paradoxically, a persistent sense of dissatisfaction.

He also reminds us that success addiction isn’t just about ambition. It’s about identity. It’s about tying your sense of self so tightly to achievement that without the next win, the next honor, the next title, you feel untethered. It’s about choosing to be special rather than happy—because being special is predictable and measurable, while happiness can feel elusive, ephemeral, and harder to quantify.

Now, what does that mean for gifted high school students and those who work with them? Quite a lot, actually.

In environments like ours—residential math and science schools, specialized academies, early college programs—students aren’t just encouraged to pursue excellence. They’re surrounded by it. They breathe it in every day, competing with peers who are just as driven, just as capable, just as invested in being "the best." And that constant exposure creates pressure. Even if it’s not spoken aloud, the underlying message is clear: You’re here because you’re exceptional. So act like it. Achieve like it. Don’t mess it up.

Many of these students come into high school already having built their identity around achievement. They’re used to winning awards, acing tests, impressing adults. When they enter a more competitive space and suddenly find themselves surrounded by others who are just as accomplished, the ground shifts. The strategies that once made them stand out now make them blend in. And that can be deeply unsettling.

That’s where the idea of success addiction becomes especially relevant. For these students, the chase can become compulsive. Not because they’re greedy or arrogant, but because they genuinely don’t know who they are without the next goal to pursue. If they’re not achieving, they fear they’re falling behind. If they’re not impressive, they fear they’re invisible.

And let’s be honest—adults can unintentionally feed this cycle. We praise results more than effort. We spotlight the kids who get into the most prestigious schools, win the most awards, stack the most AP credits. We tell students, implicitly or explicitly, that their value lies in their output. And in doing so, we reinforce the idea that success isn’t just a path—it’s a performance.

So what do we do with all of this?

First, we name it. We help students, families, and educators understand that success addiction is real—and it’s not healthy. It’s not about saying ambition is bad or that students shouldn’t strive. It’s about making sure that their striving doesn’t come at the cost of their well-being or their sense of self.

For students, that means learning to see value in things that can’t be measured by test scores or trophies. It means finding joy in curiosity, in friendships, in rest. It means giving themselves permission to take a break, to fail, to be ordinary sometimes.

For parents, it’s about shifting the conversation. Instead of always asking, "What did you get on the test?" try asking, "What did you learn today?" or "What part of your day made you smile?" It’s about reminding your student that you love who they are, not just what they do.

And for educators—especially those of us in specialized schools—it’s about modeling balance. About showing students that excellence and rest are not mutually exclusive. About celebrating growth, risk-taking, and process as much as outcomes. And yes, about being brave enough to talk openly about the mental and emotional costs of overachievement.

Brooks offers three antidotes to success addiction: acknowledge that achievement alone isn’t enough, repair relationships that may have been damaged by relentless striving, and redefine what success means in your life.

Those are steps we can all take. And for gifted students navigating the pressure-cooker of adolescence and ambition, they are essential.

Because in the end, we want our students to be more than just impressive. We want them to be whole. We want them to experience joy that isn’t dependent on their résumé. We want them to choose being happy over being special.

And that choice—that pivot—is where real success begins.