The Quiet Kid Who Wasn’t Broken

By Tricia Hamilton:

I am a doctor of physical therapy, an alumnus of the University of Hartford, and grew up in public school in Massachusetts.

I was in first grade when I was pulled out of class for the first time and was brought into a small group of kids who struggled with reading and spelling. Despite my request to return to the rest of the class, I was denied with no explanation. This was my first experience of feeling different because of my learning disability. I went undiagnosed throughout the entirety of elementary school, all while continuing to be pulled out of classes to attend reading classes with one or two other kids. Still with no explanation other than my own being, “I’m stupid”.

Throughout elementary school, I began to feel embarrassed about reading and related school subjects. I became fearful of reading out loud and making mistakes in front of others, I stopped raising my hand, and this is when the “quiet kid” comment began to appear on my report cards. I learned anxiety through spelling tests and cups of popsicle sticks to randomize out loud reading. I grew up disappointing and frustrating my parents and teachers, and in doing so, I learned shame. I clung to math and creative classes like art, music, and gym, where reading was minimally required; where I felt an equal playing field with my peers.

In middle school, instead of being pulled out of classes, I was in a scheduled reading class that took the place of an art or gym elective. Instead of participating in the classes I looked forward to, I was sitting in a room with a teacher who was trying to have me sound out words.

This is where I felt less than my peers; this is where I learned absolute humiliation. Every snicker from a classmate, every comment along the lines of “you can’t read”, “you spelled that wrong”, “you're just lazy”, and every standardized test telling me that my reading level was two or so grades below average; were all taken to heart, building my insecurity and feelings of isolation.

I was in seventh grade when I was diagnosed with dyslexia. That diagnosis changed everything for me; it gave me validation for my efforts. It was the first time that someone had explained to me that I was a highly intelligent person and that my brain just processed language differently. This is where I learned that I had the capacity for achievement. I went forward from this diagnosis with self-efficacy. About halfway through that year, I graduated from additional reading classes and ended my final semester of middle school with straight A’s.

In high school, I was given a 504 plan with in-class accommodations such as extended time for test taking, and the prevention of teachers calling on me unless my hand was raised. These accommodations were individualized to support, not limit, my experience in high school. I finally met expectations and succeeded in accelerated classes. My parents and teachers pushed me to do well, but not as hard as I pushed myself. I went through school nervous that if I didn’t do well on a test or in a class, I would end up in some form of reading class again. I acted in fear with that threat looming over my head, whether it was really there or not.

This led to difficulty asking for help, fear of making mistakes, high personal expectations driven by the need to prove myself, and an absolute fear of failure. In high school, I also found myself trying to mask or hide my dyslexia. My peers knew what dyslexia was enough to make an “oh, I’m dyslexic” remark with every spelling error or grammatical mistake, but they did not understand what it really was or the daily struggle it posed. I still carried the shame, insecurity, and embarrassment that made me feel like an impostor in my classes. I always saw myself at the bottom of the class, even when I was excelling. Every assignment took more time and more effort; the material was not taught in a way that made it easy for me to understand, and I had to fight to be where my peers seemed to be. I never talked about my dyslexia; there was a discomfort in speaking of it. In college, I began to grow more accepting of my dyslexia through meeting individuals for the first time and gaining a sense of community and understanding. Hearing their stories and experiences helped me begin to accept my own.

Through college, graduate school, and now into my career, I have experienced insecurities and every feeling listed above at times, but I continue to grow in my confidence and ability to advocate for myself.

To the individuals who may have just been diagnosed with dyslexia, you are capable, and you can do all that you aspire to.

To parents and families with a child who has just started their dyslexia journey, have patience and understanding for how this diagnosis impacts them in school, and help them get the footing they need to be successful. Include your child in setting up accommodations; let them be a part of the process so they do not have to question why.