#DragonBallSuper

Looking back at the Tournament of Power, I’ve realized that Goku’s attitude wasn’t as reckless as it seemed—but it wasn’t entirely responsible either. At first glance, he acted like it was just another fight, smiling and getting excited even when entire universes were at stake. It frustrated a lot of people, both in and out of the show, because it looked like he wasn’t taking the gravity of the situation seriously. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that Goku wasn’t just being careless—he was deliberately keeping himself and his team from collapsing under the pressure.

Goku has always had a different relationship with fear than most. He doesn’t overthink or let anxiety dictate his actions; he just moves forward. If he had let himself truly feel the weight of what was happening—the erasure of entire civilizations, the possibility of losing everything—he might have hesitated. And for Goku, hesitation is the one thing he can’t afford. He fights best when he’s focused on the thrill of the moment, not the consequences of failure. But that doesn’t mean he was right to treat it like a game.

And that brings me to the issue of toxic positivity. Goku’s insistence on treating everything as a challenge to overcome, rather than a genuine crisis, had real consequences. He framed the entire tournament as an exciting opportunity, but in doing so, he ignored how much stress and responsibility he was putting on others—especially Gohan. Gohan isn’t like his father. He internalizes responsibility, overthinks every choice, and feels the weight of expectations in a way Goku never has. If Gohan had fully grasped the stakes in the moment, it might have paralyzed him. And in a way, Goku needed to keep up that mask of enthusiasm, because if he had acknowledged how dire the situation really was, it could have cracked the entire team.

So when Goku says at the end that he has no regrets, I kinda believe him. He did what he thought was necessary to win. But that doesn’t mean it was the right way to handle it. His mindset worked for him, but it wasn’t what everyone else needed. His positivity kept him moving, but it also blinded him to the emotional toll on those around him. The aftermath of Gohan’s fight with Obuni is a perfect example of how Goku’s mindset didn’t work for everyone. That fight was one of the most emotionally charged moments in the Tournament of Power, and it wasn’t just about strength—it was about loss. Obuni wasn’t some villain for Gohan to overcome; he was a warrior just like him, fighting with everything he had for the sake of his loved ones. When Obuni was eliminated, his locket fell open, revealing an image of his family—people who no longer existed because Universe 10 had just been erased.

And Gohan felt that. You could see it in his expression, in the way he clenched his fists, in how he looked down at that locket with something that wasn’t victory, but grief. That moment hit him hard because he understood exactly what had just happened—Obuni wasn’t just gone from the ring, he was gone. His world, his family, everything he fought for had been wiped out in an instant. And Gohan, who has always been more emotionally attuned than his father, let himself sit with that.

But Goku? He barely reacted. Not to Universe 10’s erasure, not to Gohan’s clear emotional turmoil, not to anything. He just kept looking ahead to the next fight, the next challenge. And this is where his toxic positivity becomes a real problem—his refusal to acknowledge the weight of what was happening meant that moments like this went unaddressed. Gohan wasn’t looking for a pep talk, but he also wasn’t going to brush it off and move on the way Goku did. And yet, because of the way Goku framed the tournament from the start, there was no space for reflection, no real acknowledgment of the cost of their victories.

Gohan never even got a chance to talk about what that moment meant to him. He just swallowed it down and kept fighting. Because in the world Goku created for this tournament, that’s what you had to do.

#DragonBall

In exploring the limitations of the American education system, I see the journey of post-Buu Saga Gohan as a poignant, if unconventional, metaphor for the struggles faced by neurodivergent students, particularly those labeled as “gifted.” Gohan, celebrated in his youth for his exceptional power and potential, faces a deep personal conflict after the Buu Saga. Strikingly, his ‘gift’ is not in the form of traditional academic excellence but his prowess in fighting—a raw, visceral ability that’s difficult to categorize, control, or institutionalize. In many ways, this aligns with the experiences of neurodivergent individuals whose talents and aptitudes fall outside the boundaries of standardized educational expectations.

The “burnt-out gifted student” archetype resonates here as a sharp critique of a system that seeks to categorize and label abilities without regard for individual interests or well-being. Like Gohan, many neurodivergent individuals are thrust into academic or social settings that value rigid outcomes over nurturing diverse paths. They are often praised when their skills align with a narrow set of societal or institutional values, yet abandoned or misunderstood when those skills veer off the conventional path. The system’s inflexibility pushes them into boxes—leaving them exhausted, questioning their worth, or feeling as though their gifts are only valuable when applied in pre-defined ways.

Gohan’s shift from a fighter to a scholar is celebrated by those around him but often joked about within the fandom as a fall from his potential as a warrior. This commentary reflects a real-world dilemma: society pressures individuals to conform to “acceptable” skills while devaluing less conventional talents, especially those with neurodivergent traits. The system doesn’t prepare these “gifted” individuals to be well-rounded or truly free in their choices but rather funnels them toward achievements that fit within its prescribed outcomes, leaving behind a sense of unfulfilled potential.

For neurodivergent students, whose gifts may not align with traditional academics, the experience of Gohan’s burnout mirrors their own struggle to reconcile intrinsic talents with external expectations. The exhaustion he feels—exemplified by his lack of interest in fighting despite his unmatched power—echoes the disenfranchisement of neurodivergent individuals who are pushed to excel in fields that drain, rather than inspire, them. This humorous depiction of Gohan as a “burnt-out gifted kid” shines a light on the inherent limitations of a system that celebrates giftedness only when it serves specific ends, rather than supporting a true diversity of talent and growth. Gohan’s performance in the Tournament of Power feels like a reclamation of his strengths on his own terms. No longer confined to the expectations of others or bound by the narrow vision of his “potential” as a fighter, Gohan enters the tournament with a renewed, self-directed purpose. He acknowledges both his intellectual pursuits and his fighting spirit, blending them into a strategy that plays to his unique strengths rather than to the expectations others place on him. This journey symbolizes a path that neurodivergent individuals might seek—a return to their intrinsic talents and interests, but now with a matured understanding of how they fit within their own self-defined goals.

In reclaiming his fighting abilities, Gohan resists being pigeonholed, choosing instead to blend his scholarly mind with his innate strength, crafting an approach that feels true to his own character. This mirrors the journey of many neurodivergent people who, once free from rigid academic or societal structures, find ways to apply their “unconventional” talents on their own terms. Gohan’s growth isn’t about proving his worth to others or conforming to his father’s ideals of a warrior, but rather about refining a version of himself that values balance, intentionality, and authenticity.

Ultimately, Gohan’s role in the Tournament of Power serves as a testament to the value of self-acceptance over societal validation. It celebrates his journey as one of self-reclamation—a message that resonates with neurodivergent individuals who yearn to succeed without compromising their identity. In finding his place on his own terms, Gohan embodies the powerful idea that true growth and fulfillment come from honoring one’s own path, not the path others expect. This liberation is, perhaps, the greatest victory one can achieve, inside or outside the arena.

Honestly, a rewrite of Dragon Ball Super: Super Hero could have taken some cues from the live-action adaptation of American Born Chinese, especially where Sun Wei-Chen grapples not only with societal stereotypes but also with familial pressures and the weight of ancestral legacy represented by the Monkey King.