The Struggle to Be Understood: Dyslexia, Doubt, and the Writer's Journey

As another new year starts, I am closer than ever to officially publishing my first book!

With the excitement that brings, however, I find myself standing on the edge of a milestone that also brings with it a familiar wave of self-doubt.

In the past few weeks, my focus has been consumed by edit after edit, re-write after re-write, and mistake after mistake.

Though I should feel nothing but excitement about this next chapter in my life, instead, I'm confronted by the same insecurities and apprehensions I thought I'd long overcome. In an effort to move beyond them, I've decided to face these doubts head-on.

To be fully transparent with anyone who might one day read my books—here's a glimpse into the journey that's led me here.

Dyslexia & Me

In the first grade, back in 2000, I was diagnosed with primary developmental dyslexia.

Meaning—I got it from my momma.

Over the years, I've come to terms with the fact that this will always be a defining part of me. But getting to the point of acceptance wasn't easy.

This isn't a post to educate anyone on dyslexia; I'm not a trained expert. I simply want to share my story. Individual experiences vary vastly, and this is mine—a glimpse into the challenges, frustrations, and successes that brought me here.

A Rocky Start

When I was six, my teachers thought I was going blind.

I had hidden my inability to read by pretending I couldn't see the words. I'd tilt books or pages while mumbling the few words I'd memorized. At the optometrist, I didn't even need to fake it because I really wasn't able to recognize the letters.

My charade got me a pair of glasses that gave me nothing but horrible headaches. After about a month or so, I "lost" them under my dad's car wheel. We couldn't really afford that first pair, so... I didn't get a second—which ended up being my downfall.

At some point during my act, my first-grade teacher took it upon herself to dig deeper. After speaking with my kindergarten teacher, she discovered that dyslexia had been suspected early on. My creativity and problem-solving skills made me stand out against my peers. However, my struggles with everything else raised more than one concern.

Originally, she had chalked it up to my overactive imagination, distracting me. She wrote in reports that I just needed a little more time than most kids to self-regulate. Back then, a diagnosis of dyslexia was often viewed as a "black mark" on a student's permit record, and my kindergarten teacher didn't want to label me.

The Diagnosis

After exhaustive testing, I was officially diagnosed with dyslexia. However, in 2000, in my smallish town, there weren't as many terms or resources to really explain what that meant. To the adults around me, it was either you had it, or you didn't, and they would shove you into one of two boxes. Which were "Normal" or "Intellectually Impaired."

I'm guessing you can figure out which one I was placed in—and it came with a long list of challenges no one fully explained. And while I got it from my mother, hers—I later learned—is only rapid and thus significantly less bothersome or noticeable, so she didn't really have any insight to give either.

It's still strange to me how my parents reacted when my teachers sat them down and gave them the one real option to help me. They could pay for a private tutor or not and see how far I could go. Beside the fact that we did not have the money for that, my mother had waved off the concerns for my future development. She figured what was the harm in letting me figure it out like she had.

So, I was left to navigate this strange, overwhelming box I'd been placed in with minimal support. It felt like everyone around me—teachers, parents, classmates, and even my siblings—knew I was "broken," but no one knew how to fix it. And instead of getting understanding or encouragement when I asked for help, I often got looks of disappointment or annoyance.

At the beginning of second grade, it was clear I was rapidly falling behind. Even more hours of testing and re-evaluations later, I was given an Individualized Education Plan (IEP). All of these were draining, and while they confirmed my advanced creative and problem-solving skills, they also reinforced just how far behind I was in other "simpler" areas. This dichotomy—being "smart" yet constantly struggling—became a source of endless frustration for myself and the adults around me.

By the time I entered third grade, that frustration grew, and a feeling of isolation had started to take root. After a failed attempt by my mother to catch me up, the adults in my life decided, based on their fear of my falling further behind, that a hybrid schedule of regular and special education (SE) classes were needed.

At the time, SE largely catered to students with intellectual disabilities, and I was lumped in due to the lack of understanding about language processing disorders. Dyslexia, in 2002, was still considered a learning disability after all. But as an eight-year-old, having to walk into that classroom while my friends and classmates went to their reading, writing, or math lessons—the stigma was unbearable.

In the SE room, I was surrounded by peers who had vastly different intellectual challenges, most of which were significantly more severe. I understood, respected, and cared for them. But I also understood something they didn't: the cruelty of other children.

My classmates teased me mercilessly, and my feelings of isolation intensified. At home, my family's well-intentioned comparisons to my (high-achieving) siblings only deepened my sense of inadequacy. Their attempts at encouragement often felt like reminders of my shortcomings.

My siblings often highlighted my struggles in ways that felt cruel, even if it wasn't intentional. Being the youngest of four girls born within five years of each other—we were forced to be close when we were young, and I saw them as extraordinarily brilliant. They were able to do things I couldn't without even trying and my father brought this up often as a way to motivate me, but it only made me feel like there was something deeply wrong with me.

Being kids themselves, my sisters sometimes made my dyslexia the punchline of their jokes. When their friends came over, I became a sort of jester. They'd have me read aloud so they could laugh as I struggled. They'd ask me to spell simple words, knowing I would fail. Their favorite was "six," a word I tried to memorize but often mistakenly spelled with an "e" instead of an "i." Even though I didn't know why they laughed at that, I would laugh along to seem like I was in on it.

From their actions, I forced myself to learn how to hide my emotions because while inside, I was utterly hurt—I figured out that if the joke laughs at itself, it stops being funny. As we got older, these moments stopped but the damage had been done. My insecurities had deepened, I isolated myself further, and for years, I let my hurt define me.

Hitting Rock Bottom

Starting as far back as I can remember, I would have my grandfather—who lived with us—read me the same stories over and over. Then, at night, while everyone was sleeping, I would hide in my closet with a flashlight and the books. I would practice reading through memorization of what he had said—I would practice how to fake reading so no one would know I was faking it.

Throughout my childhood, I had dozens of notebooks filled with simple and silly stories using only the words I remembered to practice my writing. Those nights, as exhausting as they were, became my hidden refuge. Storytelling and writing gave me a way to escape the relentless feeling of failure that followed me everywhere else.

Throughout those years of sleepless nights and stressful days, I learned how to hide my dyslexia better, but it also led to me finding new ways to pass. I learned how to cheat because I figured out that I could get out of the SE classes if I passed my monthly evaluations. So, I started by hiding the answers for those since the booklets were always the same. After a lot of trial and error, I perfected my methods. I would copy answers or vocabulary words onto the tips of my fingers with a fine-point pen or by carving them into the wood of my pencils with a needle. I had no idea what most of it said, but no one else knew that.

After years of doing this—along with some changes in my state's education system and my family moving to an underfunded school district—I was finally allowed to join my peers in the eighth grade for all our classes. Finally, I was getting a real education for the whole day, instead of sitting in a room for half of it where we literally just went over colors, shapes, and matched pictures of animals to their names.

I was so excited, but I learned very quickly that the giant black mark on my record was still there, and for my "normal kid" teachers, it was all they saw. I had put in so much work to get there (even if a lot of it was cheating), and none of it actually mattered. My teachers saw me and treated me as just another problem student (and by that, I mean an overlooked one).

After having my first IEP meeting with my parents for high school, I found out I wasn't going to be allowed to take certain classes. I wasn't going to be accepted into programs or some after-school clubs. I didn't fight it because I finally believed what they did—that I wouldn't be able to handle it, that I wasn't good enough.

Going into my freshman year in high school, I became a stereotype. You know, the one—that kid in movies that ends up failing out because they are "misunderstood." When really, they have just given up because, after years of trying, they finally see themselves like everyone else always has.

The only thing that kept me going was the stories I created in my notebooks. They became my sanctuary, a place where I could be more than the failure everyone seemed to expect me to be.

But throughout high school, the weight of years of judgment, self-doubt, and self-loathing took its toll. I stopped trying. I lost my love for storytelling, and I stopped writing. I became the "problem kid" who skipped classes, went to class drunk or high, and lashed out at teachers. My life was spiraling.

It wasn't until my nephew was born during my junior year that something clicked. With my sister working and me not having a job, I became his babysitter. I spent all of my free time with him, and watching him learn and grow—teaching him how to walk and talk—made me realize that I had to get in control of my life. I didn't want him to get older and look at me and see someone who had given up and think he could do the same.

The summer before my senior year, with my nephew nearly always at my side, I began reading and writing obsessively. I wasn't always right on the words, but I finally pushed my embarrassment away and asked for help. When I was reading and found a word I didn't know, I would go to someone, point at it, and simply say, "What does this say?" And no matter how many times I had to ask, I refused to let myself care anymore about the looks or the sighs of disappointment.

Slowly, I reclaimed my worth.

Rediscovering My Voice

After spending that entire summer reading and writing, I entered my senior year of high school with a new confidence. I went to my IEP meeting alone for the first time. I demanded they allow me to test out of it, which I did (without cheating). I graduated ranked in the middle of my class, and I became the first of my siblings to earn a college degree (it's only an Associate's, but still).

Over the years, I learned more about dyslexia. In college, I even volunteered to be a part of an assignment some neuropsychologist students from a local university were doing. From them (and checked by their advisor and later a licensed neuropsychologist), I learned I have a combination—with varying levels of severity—of phonological, double deficit, rapid, surface, and visual dyslexia, along with ADHD.

While I won't go into what that all means because that could be an entire book (and is… probably) for those who know a thing or two about it, I have what is commonly referred to in the community as super mega-bad dyslexia.

And, though these labels provided clarity as to why my childhood struggles with learning and my continued struggles with reading and writing are more intense than others, I knew they didn't define me. Instead, I find strength in the unique perspective those struggles give me.

In my writing, while it will always be one of my greatest struggles I found an almost peace. I have always been a storyteller, but when I threw myself into it with a nearly obsessive determination, I found my voice. My stories weren't just an escape anymore—they were a lifeline, a way to shape a world where I had control, where I could create meaning from chaos.

Moving Forward

Today, as I pursue my dream of becoming a published author, I carry the lessons my journey has taught me.

I know countless authors are facing similar challenges. To them, I say: Thank you for what you have already done. I hope to add my mark to this world—to the community, just as you have.

And to those still to come, I say: Your journey may be unconventional, but it is entirely attainable. Don't let a disorder like this hinder you—let it shape you into a storyteller who views language in a unique way. You are not alone. Embrace your story. Embrace your voice. The world needs to hear it.

All the best,

AJ Eddy