The Dyslexia Struggles Nobody Talks About: Beyond the Reading
The Dyslexia Struggles Nobody Talks About: Beyond the Reading
I still don’t remember the exact moment I
realised I was different. However, I always struggled with spelling, and therefore, with reading as well. Reading aloud was a nightmare.
I was eight years old, sitting in Mrs Uma's third-grade classroom. She'd just
handed back our spelling tests. Twenty words. I'd studied for hours the night
before—my mom quizzing me over and over until I could recite every letter
perfectly. I got 3 right.
My best friend Vijaya, who'd glanced at the words once before bed, got 100%.
That's when it hit me: something is wrong with me.
What I didn't know then, what nobody told me, was that I wasn't broken. I was
dyslexic. And while everyone was focused on my reading and spelling struggles,
there was an entire world of challenges happening beneath the surface that
nobody was talking about.
The Exhaustion No One Sees
Let me tell you what a typical school day
felt like for me, and for millions of dyslexic students sitting in classrooms
right now.
By 10 a.m., I was already tired. Not sleepy-tired. Brain-exhausted-tired. The
kind of tired where your head feels heavy and your eyes burn. While my
classmates breezed through morning reading, I was decoding every single word.
Do you know what it takes to read when you're dyslexic? It's not automatic.
Every word is a puzzle. Sound out the first letter. Look at the next letters. Try
to blend them. Wait, did I get that right? Read it again. What does that word
mean? Go back, I lost the meaning of the sentence. Start over.
Now imagine doing that. For six hours. Every single day. By lunchtime, I had
nothing left. While other kids played, I sat quietly, trying to recharge enough
to make it through the afternoon. By the time I got home, I'd collapse. My mom
thought I was lazy. My teachers thought I wasn't trying. Nobody understood that
reading, for me, was like running a marathon while everyone else was taking a
leisurely walk.
The struggle nobody talks about: Dyslexia isn't just hard—it's exhausting in a
way that non-dyslexic people can't fully comprehend.
The Shame That Becomes Your Shadow
Here's what the articles and awareness
campaigns don't tell you: dyslexia comes with a heavy coat of shame that you
wear every single day.
I became a master of hiding. I'd volunteer to pass out papers so I wouldn't be
called on to read. I'd claim I forgot my book at home. I'd ask to go to the
bathroom during silent reading time. I memorised book cover-to-cover so I could
'read' them aloud without actually decoding the words and still failed every
time.
In high school, I had a panic attack in the bathroom before every class. My
stomach would knot up. My hands would shake. Because I never knew when I'd be
called on to read, and I never knew when I'd stumble over words that
five-year-olds could read fluently. It was not just English; every subject
would cause panic, exam time, when I spent hours and hours trying to memorise
spellings other than the concepts. The number of red circles in exam papers and
my notebooks was my badge of shame to bear. It was a permanent cringy feeling
when notebooks and exam papers were distributed.
The worst part—I was smart. I knew I was smart. I could discuss complex ideas,
solve difficult problems, and understand concepts that confused my peers. But
because I couldn't read fluently, I felt stupid every single day and dejected
as I didn’t know what else to do to learn the spellings better or read
fluently.
I'd sit in Advanced Placement classes feeling like a fraud, convinced that at
any moment, someone would discover I didn't belong there. That I'd gotten there
by accident. That I wasn't actually intelligent—I'd just fooled everyone.
The struggle nobody talks about: Dyslexia doesn't just affect your reading. It
attacks your self-worth, your identity, and your belief in your own
intelligence.
The Time Blindness That Controls Your Life
Except I wasn't. Because dyslexia had given me another challenge, I didn't even
know it was related: time blindness.
I couldn't estimate how long anything would take. 'This assignment will take
you 30 minutes,' the lecturer would say. Three hours later, I'd still be
working on it. I was either absurdly early to everything (because I
overcompensated) or accidentally late (because 15 minutes somehow became 45
minutes).
Reading the clock was a whole thing. Digital clocks helped, but we didn’t have
many. But analogue clocks? Forget it. Is the little hand on the 3 or past it?
Is it 3:15 or 3:45? I'd show up to appointments at the wrong time and feel like
an idiot. Again.
Planning my day was impossible. I'd think, 'I'll read this chapter, write this
paper, and study for that test.' Six hours later, I'd finished the chapter.
Just the chapter.
The struggle nobody talks about: Dyslexia affects time perception and
management in ways that impact every area of life, not just academics.
The Social Exhaustion of Constant Masking
What they didn't see was the exhaustion of constantly masking.
Every text message took three times longer because I'd reread it obsessively to
check for errors. Every email at work required proofreading multiple times.
Every form I filled out created anxiety—what if I transpose numbers again? What
if I misspell something obvious? Writing in block letters was the biggest
problem. I would start with block letters, but would change to small letters
and would not even realise when.
I still struggle with anything handwritten, any language and even my own
handwriting. I cannot read my own spelling or understand my own words. This has
developed an aversion to looking at notes or anything written by hand. I'd
avoid restaurants with handwritten menus. I'd memorise my order before the waiter
came because reading under pressure made my brain freeze. I'd let friends
choose activities so I wouldn't have to read options aloud.
The mental load of hiding dyslexia is enormous. It's like running background
software on your brain 24/7, constantly monitoring, adjusting, and
compensating.
The struggle nobody talks about: The effort of appearing 'normal' is
exhausting, isolating, and takes a serious toll on mental health.
The Imposter Syndrome That Never Goes Away
I'm 48 now. I have two degrees. I run a
successful business. I'm good at what I do—really good.
And I still feel like a fraud sometimes.
Last month, I misspelt 'separate' in a professional email (it's 'separate,'
right? No wait, 'separate'? I still can't remember). I immediately panicked.
What if they think I'm incompetent? What if this ruins my credibility? What if
they realise I'm not actually as smart as they think?
I still have dreams where I'm back in school, being asked to read aloud, and I
can't do it. I have failed my 10th Class, and I am being humiliated in college.
I wake up with my heart racing and sweating profusely.
I still sometimes avoid tasks that involve heavy reading, even though I have
tools and strategies now. The old fear creeps in: what if I can't do it? What
if I fail? I never write when someone is looking.
This is the thing about dyslexia that nobody prepares you for: even when you
succeed, even when you prove yourself over and over, there's a voice in your
head whispering that you're not good enough. That you're fooling people. That
eventually, you'll be exposed, the desperation and the constant fear of
failure.
The struggle nobody talks about: The psychological impact of dyslexia doesn't
end when you leave school. It follows you into adulthood, affecting career
choices, relationships, and self-perception.
The Grief of What Could Have Been
Sometimes I think about who I might have
been if someone had identified my dyslexia earlier. If I'd had proper support
instead of being made fun of or criticised. If I'd had accommodations instead
of being punished for taking longer.
I think about the years I spent thinking of ways to improve myself and all the
friendships lost. The opportunities I didn't pursue because I didn't think I
was good enough, or the horror of mugging up spellings and still getting it
wrong all the time, the confidence I never developed because school taught me,
I was fundamentally flawed.
I grieve for the child I was—the one who tried so hard and still felt like a
failure. The one who cried over homework. The one who thought something was
deeply wrong with her.
And I think about all the kids sitting in classrooms right now, feeling exactly
how I felt, with nobody talking about these struggles. Nobody is telling them
it's not their fault. Nobody is helping them understand that their brain just
works differently.
The struggle nobody talks about: There's a real grief that comes with
dyslexia—for the easier path you didn't have, for the childhood you lost to
frustration and shame, for the version of yourself that might have been.
The Strength You Don't Recognise
Here's what I want to tell you—whether
you're dyslexic, parenting a dyslexic child, or teaching dyslexic students:
The struggles are real. They're exhausting and frustrating and sometimes
overwhelming. But you know what else is real?
The resilience you build. The creative problem-solving you develop. The empathy
you have for others who struggle. The determination that comes from working
twice as hard for half the recognition.
I learned to advocate for myself. I learned that there are multiple paths to the
same destination. I learned that intelligence isn't measured by reading speed.
I learned to ask for help, to use tools without shame, and to define success on
my own terms.
My dyslexic brain sees patterns others miss. I think in pictures and systems.
I'm an incredible troubleshooter because I'm used to finding workarounds. I'm a
creative thinker because traditional methods never worked for me.
Would I choose to be dyslexic? Honestly, no. It's been hard. But would I trade
the person I became for it? Also no.
What Needs to Change
We need to start talking about these hidden
struggles. Not just the reading difficulties, but the exhaustion, the shame,
the time blindness, the social anxiety, the imposter syndrome, the grief.
We need to stop telling dyslexic kids to 'just try harder.' We need to stop
treating accommodations like special favours instead of necessary access. We
need to stop equating reading fluency with intelligence.
We need to create spaces where dyslexic individuals can talk about these
struggles without being told they're making excuses. Where they can advocate
for what they need without being seen as asking for special treatment. Where
their worth isn't measured by how quickly they can decode text.
A Message to Fellow Dyslexics
If you're reading this (and I know how much
effort that might have taken—thank you), I want you to know:
You're not lazy. You're not stupid. You're not broken.
Your brain is wired differently, and yes, that makes some things harder. But it
also makes other things possible that neurotypical people struggle with.
The exhaustion is real. The shame is real. The struggles are real. You're not
imagining them, and you're not alone in them.
You deserve accommodations. You deserve support. You deserve to learn in ways
that work for your brain. Using audiobooks isn't cheating. Using text-to-speech
isn't giving up. Taking longer isn't failing.
And to the eight-year-old version of me, sitting in Mrs Patterson's class with
that spelling test: You're not stupid. Your brain processes language
differently. And thirty years from now, you're going to use that different
brain to help other people feel less alone.
That's not failure. That's survival. That's a strength. That's success.
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