How Liroo started

I don't talk about this often. Maybe because when you grow up feeling invisible, you learn how to stay quiet even when you want to scream. I grew up neurodivergent. A little autism. A little dyslexia. No diagnosis until way later. No support when I needed it most. And no friends.

Not "fewer" friends. None. I was the kid who tied his shoes slowly so no one would ask why I was standing alone. The kid who smiled by the basketball court like I just happened to walk by. The kid who grew up thinking maybe I was just too much for anyone to want around.

The hardest part wasn't the schoolwork. It was the silence.

There are tons of learning tools for kids like me. Flashcards, memory games, productivity planners, and so much more. All of these tools were built around "helping kids focus" and "helping kids improve academically". But not one is built to involve and embrace the kid's differences.

I used to think something was wrong with me. That if I could just try harder, be quieter, be funnier, be more "normal". Then maybe I'd get invited in. I realized that the problem wasn't me. It was the spaces I was in. They weren't made for kids like me. They were made to reward sameness, not difference. I needed something or someone that made me feel like I was enough. That let me show up as I am, not as a version I had to mask into.

That's what I'm building now. Not just for me, but for every kid still standing at the edge of the group, hoping someone will look up and say, "You can join us."

School came easily to me not because I was smarter, but because the system was built for how I learned. I followed instructions and rarely ran into friction. But once a week, I stepped into a space where that framework didn't work, and it changed everything.

As a teen volunteer, I worked one-on-one with neurodivergent kids. My job was to guide them through structured activities, but I quickly learned that structure didn't mean the same thing for everyone. Some kids needed visuals. Others thrived with repetition or rhythm. Some couldn't handle sensory input that others barely noticed.

There was no single approach that worked. So I adapted. I rewrote exercises, tossed out rigid progress charts, and rethought what "success" looked like. I started asking more fundamental questions: What were these kids' specific goals? They didn't need to be changed, the learning methods needed to adapt to them.

Working with these kids opened my eyes to how much of the world simply wasn't designed with them in mind. Classrooms with fluorescent lights that felt overwhelming. Software interfaces that assumed everyone processed information the same way. Even basic things like grocery stores or playgrounds that created unnecessary barriers. I started noticing these gaps everywhere.

I eventually studied computer science because I loved the complexity and creative power of building technology. But I stayed with it because I believed in using tech to build with people in mind. Technology is only powerful when it's human.

When I met another builder (now co-founder), we spent hours talking about education and accessibility because we noticed the same persisting problems in current systems. He had his own stories about struggling in traditional classrooms. After countless conversations over coffee, we kept coming back to the same frustration: why do we keep asking kids to adapt to broken systems instead of fixing the systems? Those conversations pushed us to create a solution that adapts education to the different learning styles.

We come from different backgrounds, one of us grew up inside the system, unseen and unheard. The other worked alongside such individuals long enough to see just how broken it is.

But we both believe the same thing, that belonging should never be a luxury, especially not for kids. So we built Liroo, a quiet, gentle product designed and adapted for neurodivergent kids.