“Why did God make me this way?” This was the question that plagued most of my childhood.

This was also the question I asked my dad through a stream of tears while sitting in the backseat of his 1990 Saab 900 on my way to a dyslexic tutoring center 45 minutes away from my home. It was at this center that I would have to spend four to six hours a week for the next seven years, attempting to relearn the English language by breaking down words, decoding sounds, and memorizing vowel groupings and Latin roots. Sounds like a lot of fun for a seven-year-old, right?

I was diagnosed with dyslexia in second grade. At the time, I believed I was cursed, because being diagnosed meant that I was branded with the label of a learning disability and the stigmas that came along with it. It was clear early on that the way I learned was different from the other kids. I became embarrassed … I quickly became shyer in classrooms, isolating myself so as not to draw attention to my inadequacy; attempting to hide my struggle just so I wouldn’t feel different from the other kids. But I was. And in all honesty, I hated myself for it. I didn’t understand why it was so hard for me to do what seemed like such simple tasks. After all, the ability to read is not only a prerequisite to all education after the third grade—it is an integral part of everyday life. I couldn’t help but feel stupid when it took me hours of extra work and tutoring just to meet the standard.

Most people understand dyslexia to be a learning disability that affects a person’s ability to read and write. From an outside perspective, dyslexics are made to look like they aren’t as smart as their peers or that they simply aren’t trying hard enough. What also often goes unnoticed is the shame, guilt, and frustration that many people with dyslexia experience because of these damaging views. But what many people don’t seem to understand is that dyslexia has no effect on a person’s intelligence.

I can’t remember the exact day that I decided to change the narrative for myself, but around the time I reached the sixth grade I was fed up with the pitiful looks from my teachers and peers. I mustered up enough confidence and decided that I was not going to let my disability become an excuse for inadequacy. With the new start at a different middle school came a newfound drive to succeed in school. Although my reading was still choppy, and I struggled to transcribe my complex thoughts onto paper, I was slowly gaining the skills and confidence I needed to cope with my disability. I adapted the strategies I learned in my classes to fit my learning style and became an advocate for the extra time I needed on tests; I often went back after classes to ask about the concepts I couldn’t grasp when classes moved too fast. I worked tirelessly not to be average but instead to be exceptional. Yet, this came at the expense of time. I spent hours upon hours laboring over my work. Homework assignments that should have taken me 20 minutes took 40 minutes to an hour. I slowly became obsessive and started validating my worth through grades. It wasn’t as much about proving to other people that I was capable of success as it was proving to myself that I wasn’t going to be defined by or underestimated because of my disability.

By the time I reached Brewster as a ninth grader, I had developed a killer work ethic that served me well in a more advanced curriculum. I was able to take all accelerated classes (except for foreign language) and maintain a 4.0 GPA throughout my four years. I worked closely with my teachers to understand concepts and get the extra help I needed. For the first time, I felt like I was surrounded by a community that was going to celebrate my successes and not look at me or think of me as “less than” because I was dyslexic. Teachers were kind and patient with me, but also challenged my strengths. They pushed me to think deeper and explore new topics of passion and interest. As a result, I took on new roles as a student leader, student-athlete, and artist. My ability to thrive in the classroom was no longer defined or limited by my atypical brain. That isn’t to say that I didn’t still have setbacks and struggles. There were still nights spent in tears, laboring over the introduction paragraph of an essay for more than an hour, but I continued to push through the hard moments and overcome my self-doubt.

In retrospect, it was a blessing to have been diagnosed as early on as I was—and to have parents with shared experiences and strong backgrounds in education who knew what I needed to cope with my learning disability. Both my parents, having been diagnosed themselves, allowed me to feel seen and understood in the way my peers and teachers never did early on. Although I often felt alone in the classroom, I had the support and encouragement I desperately needed to get through those early days.

My journey with dyslexia has been one of resilience, determination, and personal growth. Despite the challenges I faced, I refused to be defined by my struggles. Through seeking support, embracing adaptive strategies, and nurturing my passions, I not only pushed through dyslexia’s hurdles, but also discovered the strength it brings to my life.

Dyslexia is not a limitation, but rather a unique aspect of my identity that has shaped me into a strong, hardworking, empathetic, and resilient individual. As I continue my education and pursue my passions, I carry with me the invaluable lessons learned from my struggle with dyslexia; knowing that it has transformed me into a person capable of achieving greatness. My relentless pursuit of growth stands as a testament to the power of perseverance and the belief that one’s determination can overcome any obstacle life presents. I was able to excel not in spite of dyslexia, but because of it.

By Katherine Martin, a junior at Elon University in North Carolina, majoring in strategic communications and minoring in psychology, sports management, and photography.

Reprinted with permission from Brewster, the magazine of Brewster Academy.