When I was four years old, I met my first psychologist.
By eight, I had been given a collection of labels: ADHD, clinical depression, oppositional defiant disorder. I was put on medication. By nine, I was expelled from school. Not suspended. Not put in detention. Asked to leave.
The problem, as far as the system was concerned, wasn’t that I was violent or cruel. I wasn’t starting fights or lighting fires. I wasn’t throwing chairs. I was just too much—too restless, too impulsive, too unwilling to sit still and be what a child was supposed to be: well-behaved and compliant.
I used to climb into the top of my closet and hide for hours. Once, I pulled a plastic bag over my head and threatened suicide. I didn’t fully tape it shut—I wasn’t actually trying to do it, I don’t think. But I was trying to get someone to listen. Dark stuff for a 9-year-old with a loving, supportive family. But when every adult in your life is pointing at you—telling you you’re the problem, the disruption, the issue to be managed—it’s isolating. It’s weird.
And so, the professionals got involved. Teachers sent home notes. Specialists prescribed treatments. My parents, desperate to help, tried therapy, acupuncture, new schools, new routines. They even took me to a spirit woman, who dangled a necklace over my chest, tracing the invisible currents of my energy.
None of it made me more like my classmate Alex—the kid who could sit in his chair all day, quiet, fantastic posture, arms neatly folded, going along with everything without question. I remember looking at him and thinking how extraordinary he was. But also how strange.
The system didn’t see it that way. Even in the 1990s, it wasn’t built for kids like me—kids with minds that roamed, kids who needed to move, run, goof off, question authority, dream, dare, experiment. And so, it did what systems do when something doesn’t fit: it labeled me and tried to lock me down.
It also scared the hell out of my parents. Teachers, therapists, and specialists convinced them that my impulsivity, my defiance, my refusal to sit quietly and go with the flow—these were signs of something bigger. A lifelong battle to get under control before it was too late.
When I think back to how it felt, I can’t help but think about zoos. And I don’t care where you stand on them—some serve a real purpose, protecting endangered species, running conservation programs. But deep down, we all know that no matter how well-designed, no matter how much enrichment, space, or care… a zoo isn’t the wild.
That’s what school felt like.
Forcing kids to spend their childhood in a system that limits exploration and creativity goes against their nature. Walk into most schools, and what do you see? Rows of desks. Rigid schedules. Planned curriculum.
Structure has its place—it provides stability, discipline, and order. But when structure dominates curiosity, creativity, or movement, learning becomes more about compliance than discovery. And that’s something we don’t question enough.
I was a wild, curious kid—but instead of being nurtured, that was seen as something that needed fixing. Of course, I had well-meaning teachers who wanted to inspire me. Of course, I wasn’t abused in the traditional sense. But the whole experience was suffocating.
And I get it. Parents have to work. Homeschooling isn’t realistic for most. Public schools don’t have the funding or structure to give kids more autonomy. But isn’t it rational—ethical, even—to let our kids spend more time exploring their own interests? Following their curiosity? Playing? Getting their hands dirty? Shouldn’t we take them more seriously?
Now, I’m not suggesting we abandon core subjects like math and science. Those are essential. And I absolutely believe that children need to be challenged, cultivate discipline, and push through things they don’t want to do. But like most things in life, balance matters.
Looking back, I’d argue that 80% of what I learned in school—and how I learned it—was neither necessary nor effective. If I had more freedom to explore and create in early childhood, I think it would have set me up for not just more academic success, but fewer mental blocks, and a much better understanding of how the world works.
It wasn’t until Dixie, an early childhood psychologist, came into my life that things shifted. She told my parents something they hadn’t heard before: Let go.
I was lucky.
Not because I had some superhuman resilience, but because I had things most kids in my position don’t: parents who fought for me, the financial means to get therapy, access to a top progressive school that finally let me breathe (shout out to Oakwood). That’s why I got through it. I learned to navigate my challenges because I had the support.
Most kids don’t get that. Therapy? Private school? Out of the question for most families. If you’re a working-class parent with a kid like me, your options are often medicate or discipline. Or just hold on for dear life.
What about the kids who don’t have a Dixie, a fantastic school, or parents with the resources to push back and challenge conventional wisdom? How can we build something that actually works for them?
At Mulholland, we don’t believe technology should replace teachers, parents, or human relationships. But kids who are restless, misunderstood, labeled too soon need something different. And while we’re starting with kids who need it most, we believe that Marzy—and the products we build in the future—can serve learners of all ages and backgrounds, designing tools that help people from all walks of life explore, grow, and thrive.
This is where technology, if used correctly, can help—not by replacing human connection, but by strengthening it.
Thanks to advances in artificial intelligence, we’re no longer bound by the one-size-fits-all approach. We can create learning that adapts to the student—not the other way around. Infinitely patient, endlessly customizable, tailored to the strengths, struggles, and curiosity of each individual. It’s hard to fathom what it will look like 25 years from now. But one thing is clear: learning is about to be transformed.
I’ve lived in the Santa Monica Mountains, just off Mulholland Drive, for years. I’m a fourth-generation Angeleno. Mulholland is a dividing line—it twists and dips, hugs the hills, unspools past traffic and lights to the south, and the sunbaked Valley to the north. It never runs straight, but it always moves forward.
Progress isn’t linear, it’s iterative. That’s what learning should be. Not a preordained route, not a series of instructions to follow, but a process of discovery. A journey where detours aren’t obstacles—they’re opportunities. Where error correction, not blind obedience, is how we find our way.
The goal isn’t to arrive at a fixed destination. It’s to keep going—solving problems, expanding possibilities, and never mistaking the road itself for the limit of where we can go.