The Messy, Beautiful, Exhausting, Empowering Reality of Being a Dyslexic Author:

The Messy, Beautiful, Exhausting, Empowering Reality of Being a Dyslexic Author:

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it actually means to write with a dyslexic brain. Not the dictionary definition or the cute little infographic lists of “strengths and struggles," I mean the real lived experience. The kind that hits you at midnight when you’re staring at a blinking cursor, wondering if every sentence you write is secretly ridiculous. The kind that shows up when spellcheck throws its hands up and says, “Honestly, I have no idea what word you were even trying for. I give up; just figure it out on your own.”

Because here’s the truth: writing as a dyslexic author is messy.

It’s chaotic. It’s emotional. And somehow… it’s also the most powerful, soul-filling thing I’ve ever done.

So let me just talk to you, like we’re friends, like we’re in the same room, because that’s the only way this feels right.

The Part I Don’t Usually Say Out Loud:

Some days, I’m convinced the letters on the page are conspiring against me. I’ll sit down, ready to write something brilliant, and instead the words… twist. Or vanish. Or look wrong even when they’re right. I’ll read a sentence ten times and still think, “That doesn’t look like a real word.” And don’t even get me started on homophones or commas! They are my sworn enemies. I have officially declared war on them! 

And maybe the reason these frustrations cut so deep is because they echo the struggles I had long before I ever called myself an author.

I grew up dyslexic in a place where nobody knew what that meant.

And kids…kids notice differences before adults do.

I was the kid who got bullied in elementary school because I couldn’t read like everyone else and I had to miss lunch time to finish tests because I was only on problem six out of twenty. I was the kid who stared at a simple sentence and felt her throat close up because the letters wouldn’t stay still long enough to make sense. I was the kid who heard the whispers and giggles every time I stumbled over a word during read-aloud time.

I used to dread my turn in class.

Dread it in a way that made my stomach ache.

Because I could already hear the laughter before I even opened my mouth. I would count the number of students in front of me to find the paragraph that would surely be assigned to me to practice it over and over again in my head to minimize the number of messups. 

Because everyone else seemed to glide through the “easy” words while I tripped and choked over them.

Because every mistake felt like proof that I was stupid.

And yes, I was called that.

Sometimes whispered.

Sometimes said with a laugh.

Sometimes said right to my face.

Those moments stay with you.

The Part That Still Hurts (But Also Made Me Stronger):

I used to hate reading.

Like… full-body, hot-face, tears-in-my-eyes hate.

Homework time was a warzone.

I’d sit at the kitchen table with my little pink reading glasses and worksheet and cry because the words and numbers wouldn’t behave, and I didn’t know why.

My brain felt broken.

I felt broken.

And honestly?

There were nights I thought I’d never be able to read, much less write books.

And then came the Scottish Rite Dyslexia Program.

Those people changed my life. Especially Mrs. Parish, by teacher.

She was the first one I told how I felt because she was the first to know to ask. She was the first to say, “You’re not stupid. Your brain just works differently.”

She was patient when everyone else was frustrated.

She gave me tools, strategies, hope.

She helped me untangle words that had been knots in my mind.

She helped me believe I could learn, just at my own pace, with my own rhythm.

Without Scottish Right, I don’t think I would be here writing stories. I don’t think I would ever have fallen in love with reading at all. In fact I know I wouldn’t.

It took me a long, long time to get there.

But I did.

And once I finally discovered the right books, the ones that lit something inside me, it felt like someone cracked open a window in a room I didn’t even realize had gone dark.

The Weird, Wild Strengths That Come With This Brain:

Here’s where things get a little magical.

Because despite the chaos…I see and imagine things differently.

My brain doesn’t walk in straight lines, it dances, jumps, flips over itself, and connects things that don’t look connected. I’ll be writing a scene, and suddenly the ending appears in my head like some dramatic movie reveal. Or a character I didn’t plan strolls into the room and says, “Hi, I exist now. Deal with it.”

I see the big picture before the little pieces.

I feel the emotional arc before I know what the words say.

I can hear the characters’ voices even when I can’t spell their name or half the things they’re trying to say.

It’s like my imagination is in HD, even if the words come out in fuzzy VHS.

And I’ve come to realize something… that’s a gift.

A weird one, sure.

But still a gift. I get to see and hear the world in ways “normal” people can’t even comprehend. I get to imagine things as though they were real life and I can feel and taste things. I get to find real life easter eggs other people don’t see even if they are looking for them because in my mind, there has to be something undiscovered here. My brain is never content with what is because it is always looking for ways to make what could be a reality.  

The Exhausting Part No One Talks About:

Let me be brutally honest for a second:

Writing with dyslexia is WORK.

It’s reading things a million times, and no I’m not overexaggerating. 

It’s rewriting sentences that “sound right” but look wrong, or the opposite.

It’s double, triple, quadruple checking a word just to realize in the last draft you spelled the homophone of the word you needed.

It’s realizing your brain autocorrected something into nonsense and you didn’t notice until thirty pages into the book.

It’s being terrified to hit “publish” because you just KNOW someone will point out a typo you missed.

People see the finished product and think, “Wow, you’re so talented,” and I smile and say thank you. But inside I want to shout: “You have NO IDEA how hard I fought for every line!”

But here’s the thing:

There’s pride in that fight.

Real pride. The kind that sits warm in your chest even on the days when everything feels too hard.

The Soft, Emotional Truth:

Being a dyslexic author means loving stories so fiercely that you’re willing to wrestle with words just to tell them.

It means knowing your brain works differently and choosing to write anyway.

It means showing up on the page even when it feels like the deck is stacked against you.

It means being brave enough to translate worlds that only you can see, even if the translation process is… let’s call it “creatively challenging.”

It means that every sentence you finish is a victory.

Every chapter is a mountain you climbed.

Every reader who connects with your work is proof that the struggle was worth it.

If you’re reading this and you’re dyslexic too, I want you to take a deep breath and sit with me for a second. Really sit. Because this next part is for you.

I know what it feels like to think you’re the only one in the room struggling. The only one whose heart starts pounding when the teacher says, “We’re going to read aloud today.” The only one pretending to tie your shoe or dig through your backpack so maybe—just maybe—they’ll skip over your turn. I know the panic behind your ribs. The shame in your cheeks. The way you rehearse the first sentence over and over, hoping it will magically make sense when your voice reaches it.

You’re not alone. You were never alone.

I know what it’s like to stare at a word that everyone else calls “easy” and feel your brain freeze. To hear kids behind you snicker. To feel your stomach drop when someone says, “Come on, it’s not that hard.” They didn’t see the letters bouncing. They didn’t see how your mind tried to puzzle everything out at lightning speed while theirs followed a straight path. They don’t see the headache you have after trying your best to read a paragraph. They didn’t know you were fighting a battle just to read the first line.

I know how it feels when people assume that struggling with reading means you’re not smart. Or that you’re not trying. Or that you’re lazy. You hear enough of those lies, for long enough, and you start to believe them. I know that. I lived that. I still to this day. And it takes a long time to unlearn the idea that your worth is tied to how fast you can read a paragraph or how well you can spell.

I want you to hear me when I say this:

You are not stupid! You are not slow! You are not less than!

You are someone who has fought harder than most people will ever understand.

And listen, I also know the quieter struggles.

The ones you don’t talk about.

The ones even adults or your closest friends don’t always see.

Like trying to read a menu and feeling embarrassed that it takes you longer so you let everyone else order first.

Like rereading a text message five times because you can’t tell if you typed the wrong thing.

Like losing your place on a page because your eyes jumped and having to start at the beginning and read everything over.

Like mixing up dates, numbers, directions, and feeling like you’re always three steps behind everyone else.

Like pretending you don’t love stories because reading them feels like climbing a mountain with no rope even when you want to love them.

I’ve been there too.

And if you’ve ever had someone laugh, or sigh, or dismiss you because they didn’t understand what dyslexia does to your confidence…I’m sorry. Truly. You didn’t deserve that. You deserved patience. You deserved kindness. You deserved support.

You still do.

Let me also say this:

If reading is still hard for you, even as an adult, there is nothing wrong with you.

If you’ve never finished a book cover to cover, you’re still a reader.

If you prefer audiobooks, you’re still a reader.

If you read slowly, you’re still a reader.

If you need breaks, you’re still a reader.

Reading is not a race.

It’s not a competition.

It’s not something you “fail” at.

It’s simply a way of taking in a story. And there are many ways.

And if you’re someone who loves stories—who loves imagining, creating, daydreaming—then your dyslexia hasn’t stopped you. It’s shaped you. It sharpens your creativity. It’s made you resourceful in ways most people never have to be.

There’s a reason so many dyslexic thinkers become artists, inventors, creators, and storytellers. We see the world differently. We connect ideas in unexpected ways. Our brains aren’t broken, they’re brilliant in ways the traditional school system and most people never knew how to measure.

But most importantly?

You’re not alone in this. Not now. Not ever.

There are so many of us who grew up feeling exactly the way you do, scared, embarrassed, frustrated, confused. There are so many of us who believe the worst lies about ourselves because of the way we read. And there are so many of us now who have learned to embrace our differences, even if the journey was long and hard.

So if your path looks messy, or slow, or different, please remember that different doesn’t mean wrong. And it definitely doesn’t mean unworthy.

You belong here.

Your mind is capable.

Your voice matters.

And there is a whole community of us, including me, cheering you on, hoping you keep going, hoping you realize how much potential you have.

You don’t have to face any of this alone.

You never did.

You never will.

Why I Keep Writing (Even on the Hard Days):

If you knew how many times I was told “You don’t have to do this. It is harder for you than most so just stop now before you get frustrated” or "You've proven a point so just quit while you’re ahead” you would truly understand the struggle.

I don’t write to prove a point or to show up to anyone who has said anything unkind to me, though if I’m being honest they kind of come naturally. 

I write because I can’t not write.

Because stories walk with me everywhere I go.

Because my characters won’t sit down and be quiet.

Because my imagination refuses to stay inside my head.

Because storytelling is the one thing that feels like home, even on the days when the words don’t cooperate.

And honestly? I write because I hope someone out there, maybe you, will read this and think: “If they can do it with a brain like that… maybe I can too!”

Because you can!

You absolutely can!

Whether you’re dyslexic, ADHD, neurodivergent, autistic, anxious, overwhelmed, or just a human being with dreams and doubts, you can create. You can write. You can make art that outlives your insecurities.

If You Need to Hear This, Here It Is:

You don’t have to spell perfectly to tell a perfect story.

You don’t need flawless grammar to move someone to tears.

You don’t need a brain that works like everyone else’s.

You just need a story that matters to you—and the courage to tell it in your own voice.

Your voice is enough.

Your struggles don’t disqualify you.

Your differences are part of your magic.

And if you’re a dyslexic writer like me?

Welcome to the club!

We’re tired, we’re stubborn, we’re imaginative as all get out,

and we’re writing anyway!