Dyslexia Isn’t What We Think It Is

Special Education Teacher

A Personal Story By M. Estes

I first learned about dyslexia through my best friend, Anne—not from a textbook or a lecture, but sitting beside her at a table covered in college homework. We were studying together, and I noticed I was moving through the work much faster than she was. Without thinking much of it, I asked why she seemed stuck. She looked at me and said simply, “I’m dyslexic.”

At the time, I didn’t ask many follow-up questions. We moved on, and it wasn’t until months later, when it came up again, that I realized how little I actually understood. I thought I knew something about learning disabilities—I have ADHD myself—but dyslexia was still mostly a mystery to me. My only real exposure had been a Disney Channel commercial in the mid-2010s where Bella Thorne talked about having dyslexia. It felt distant, simplified, almost abstract. Anne’s experience made it real.

As she shared more, I began to understand how wrong my assumptions had been. What surprised me most was learning how dyslexia affects working memory and long-term memory. I had assumed dyslexia was mostly about reading slowly or mixing up letters. I didn’t expect that without repetition, information could simply disappear—not because of lack of effort or intelligence, but because of how the brain processes language. I also didn’t realize that dyslexia impacts the entire input and output of language: reading, writing, listening, and speaking. It wasn’t one isolated challenge; it touched everything.

That realization changed how I saw Anne’s academic journey—and how I saw education as a whole. I wish more educators understood that dyslexia is not a textbook condition. There is no single “dyslexic experience.” Every person who has it navigates it differently, and they deserve to be taught and supported as individuals, not as a checklist of symptoms.

What hurt the most to learn was how long Anne struggled without meaningful or effective support. By about two-thirds of the way through her sophomore year of high school, it had become clear that the help she needed simply wasn’t available within her school system. Despite her efforts—and the effort she continued to put in—she was unable to access resources that truly addressed her needs. Ultimately, she had to switch schools not because support was offered too late, but because it was never actually there in the way it needed to be. By that point, years of frustration and self-doubt had already taken root.

Listening to Anne’s story had another unexpected impact—it made me see my own family differently. I began to realize that my younger sister very clearly has dyslexia, yet she was never been properly diagnosed. My parents didn’t really “believe in” learning disabilities, or at least didn’t want to see one present in their children. Her struggles were brushed off as her being a “slow reader.” It wasn’t until I started working at a school specifically focused on dyslexia that I gave her some of the diagnostic tools I had encountered. The results were unmistakable. She was dyslexic, and she had been navigating school without the understanding or support she needed.

That realization still sits heavily with me. It showed me how easy it is for learning disabilities to be overlooked, minimized, or misunderstood—especially when they don’t fit neatly into someone’s expectations.

If I could give advice to anyone interacting with a person who has dyslexia—educators, parents, peers—it would be this: listen. People with learning disabilities don’t need to be told how they should function, or why they just need to “try harder.” They need to be heard. Ask about their experiences. Ask what support would actually help. Offer patience instead of judgment.

Every word, every reaction, every small decision makes an impact. When supporting someone with dyslexia, kindness and care matter more than people realize. Being gentle with language, expectations, and assumptions can make the difference between someone feeling capable or feeling broken. Dyslexia doesn’t diminish intelligence or potential—it simply asks the world to slow down, listen, and meet people where they are.