This blog is still a work in progress, but I’m choosing to publish it anyway.
My mother realized from the moment I first held a pencil that something was different.
As a teacher, she understood what others couldn’t.
Because of her acceptance, I never felt strange or out of place. Yes, I struggled to do things and to express myself through words, but that never stopped me from pursuing what I wanted.
She tried to help—breaking down each word so I could grasp its meaning. Maybe it helped a little.
People often labelled me as lazy, assuming I wasn’t trying hard enough.
I wish I could have explained, but at that time, I didn’t have the words.
I wish I could pick up new languages as easily as others do. I know I can learn—but only at my own pace.
School categorized me as a slow learner and allowed me to focus on what I enjoyed. Some teachers understood me; others mocked me.
In college, a few dismissed me as “vernacular” because of my spelling mistakes.
Being dyslexic and struggling to express myself comes with its challenges.
But it also allows me to see the world in a way that’s uniquely my own.
As Fido Dido said: Normal is boring!
To anyone else who is dyslexic—remember, you are perfectly imperfect!
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