Dyslexia has always been a hidden part of me that, until recently, I didn’t tell others about. As I read to my children, my mask is starting to reveal itself and the invisible challenge is starting to become visible.
I was a latecomer to the discovery that my brain was different. I became a master at cover-up tactics in my early years; no-one knew that I had low self-esteem about how hard and boring some things were at school. Words would float off pages with completely different sounds to the way others understood them. When it wasn’t embarrassing, it was almost theatrical how I could twist words into something unique. ‘You belong on a stage,’ teachers would say.
When I read aloud, my palms would sweat and my mouth would go dry at the impending embarrassment. My story would be a jumble to the listener, much like it was in my head. Entire subjects were beyond my grasp because the teaching methods didn’t allow for the way I retain information.
Celebrating Strengths
It wasn’t until I went to university to study photography that I found my kinfolk. But these people knew who they were and had the tools and resources to help themselves. They didn’t seem to be stuck on their differences or covering up. They celebrated their strengths in creativity, problem-solving and communication skills. Traditional learning methods were replaced with conversation, drawing, visual learning and expression. Suddenly learning became a whole lot more interesting and I was thirsty for it like never before. I drank it all in and along the way I took a dyslexic test. I was no longer the outcast. My anxious, acting-out younger self was replaced with a sense of peace and playfulness.
That feeling didn’t last too long. When I got a job for a prestigious magazine I ended up repeating history. I had worked hard to get this opportunity, yet the stress meant I was constantly looking at the clock for my escape, with a sense of rigidity and timidity. I couldn’t see my ocean of strengths, only a feeling of being stuck somewhere uncomfortable.
Playfulness and Humour
My husband and I have chosen an alternative education for our children that focuses learning through play and storytelling. With a strong focus on being in nature, their learning doesn’t rely on rewards to drive motivation. A wise teacher at my children’s school said classrooms are a ‘microcosm of the world; there’s always edge dwellers who go on to do really interesting things.’ I wish she’d been my teacher!
Tonight felt like the perfect time to highlight the success of a fellow dyslexic, Roald Dahl, whilst reading the BFG to my son. In his school report, Dahl’s teacher wrote: ‘I have never met anybody who so persistently writes words meaning the exact opposite of what is intended’. I wonder how many times Dahl was mocked before he used his imagination and writing to create something exceptional. Bringing playfulness and humour to language, rather than conformity.
I said to my son that all our brains are different, that I have a dyslexic brain like Roald Dahl. I knew in that moment that these conversations will normalise it with my children, and more broadly, will help them to understand and embrace the neurodiversity in us all, whether they are dyslexic or not.
Lydia lives with her husband and two small children in Waitakere Ranges, in West Auckland, New Zealand.
This article was first published in issue 117 of The Green Parent magazine. Purchase a download of this edition here.
