I Didn’t Know The Name Only The Fear

A Personal Story By M. H.

Westfield State Alumni

I was young when dyslexia first entered my life, though I didn’t truly understand what it meant at the time. I had been diagnosed in third grade, but the word itself didn’t really become real to me until fifth grade. I remember sitting at a routine physical appointment when my pediatrician casually asked my mom how I was doing with my dyslexia support. My heart dropped. My mind raced. I had never heard that word spoken so plainly before, and suddenly fear took over. I didn’t know what dyslexia was, but I knew it sounded serious. Dangerous, even. I went home panicked, convinced that I might have some kind of disease. Too scared to speak the words out loud, I wrote a note on a piece of paper and left it for my parents: What is dyslexia? Am I going to die? That moment captures how alone and confused I felt—terrified of something I didn’t understand, and even more afraid to ask.

Before my diagnosis, school never quite clicked for me the way it seemed to for others. I was often pulled into small-group reading classes, and while everyone else appeared to move forward with ease, I felt stuck. Reading was exhausting. I would get lost trying to sound out words, focusing so hard on decoding letters that comprehension slipped through my fingers. I gravitated toward picture books while my peers proudly carried chapter books, and I quietly began to believe that they were smarter than me. Even language classes felt impossible—I struggled to understand my own language, so learning another felt overwhelming. Those early years planted seeds of self-doubt that would follow me for a long time.

Thankfully, I also experienced moments of incredible support. The teacher who changed everything for me was my third-grade teacher, Mrs. A-B. She was the one who noticed my struggles and advocated for me, helping my parents understand that something more was going on. Yet she never treated me differently. She never made me feel less capable. To this day, she continues to support my journey, and I truly believe she was one of the first people to help me see that my challenges did not define my worth. While not every teacher was understanding, the ones who were became my anchors on the hardest learning days.

As I got older, though, school became more complicated. While I had an IEP in place, there were times—especially in middle school and early high school—when I felt invisible or forgotten. Some teachers were not as accommodating, and at times I had to remind them of my needs, which was exhausting and humiliating. One of the most painful moments came in a foreign language class when a teacher explained to the entire class that my seating and extended time were not in his control. In that moment, I wasn’t just a student—I was a spotlighted reminder that I needed more help than everyone else. That experience stayed with me, reinforcing feelings of shame and difference that I was already struggling to carry.

Those feelings were often echoed by my peers. I was judged for the books I chose from the library and bullied for needing extra time. Reading aloud in class filled me with dread. I would count how many students were before me, rehearsing my paragraph over and over in my head, praying nothing would change. If it did—if I lost my place or stumbled—I felt instant judgment. Embarrassment washed over me, and I wanted to disappear.

When I felt myself falling behind, fear and anxiety became constant companions. To cope, I learned to mask my struggles with humor, making jokes before others could. I focused on the things I was good at and leaned heavily on the people I trusted most. Eventually, I also had to face one of my biggest fears—changing schools. Leaving the only environment I had ever known was terrifying. I was scared to leave my friends, my family, and the comfort of familiarity.

But that change turned out to be one of the greatest gifts of my life. At my new school, acceptance was the foundation. I moved into a dorm nearly two hours from home at just 15 years old, but for the first time, I walked into class without fear. I was surrounded by peers who understood learning differences because they lived them too. The support from teachers and classmates allowed me to be myself—to learn without shame and to grow without fear.

What helped me push through the hardest moments were my people—my friends, my family, and the teachers who truly understood me. Sports also became an outlet, a place where I could breathe. Soccer practices, volleyball games, and simply being outside gave me peace when school felt overwhelming. Movement and fresh air reminded me that there was more to me than my struggles.

If I could offer advice to a student newly diagnosed with a learning disability, it would be this: it is okay to feel scared, lost, or behind. Those feelings are valid. But leaning into your support system will change everything. One day, you will look back and realize that the very thing you thought held you back helped shape the strength you didn’t yet know you had.

And to parents, families, just beginning this journey—please know this: the road may be difficult at first, but it is filled with opportunity. A learning disability does not limit your future. It expands it in ways you can’t yet imagine. With patience, support, and belief, you will not only survive—you will thrive, and you will show the world exactly who’s boss.