Dyslexia: A Personal Journey Through Childhood Challenges

"Faith is to believe in what you do not yet see; the reward for this faith is to see what you believe." — Saint Augustine

That quote isn’t a flourish or an ornamental preface. It’s a compass. It speaks to a truth I’ve come to know intimately—that belief is not a passive feeling but a choice, an action, a forward motion through fog. This essay, like the organization I now help lead, is driven by that same kind of belief: a stubborn, sacred faith that what we are building matters, and that the vision planted in the soul can, by God’s grace, grow into something lasting.

I’m writing this not only to give voice to my story, but to offer our donors, our patrons, and those who walk with us a deeper look into the soul behind the mission. What you’re about to read is not merely a record of challenges. It’s a testament—a living document of resilience, humility, and quiet hope. If you skim, you may miss it. But if you listen closely, if you read between the lines and beyond the facts, you may glimpse the heart of someone trying, in the final chapters of his life, to take a modest, struggling engine and drive it—by sheer will, prayer, and Providence—into a future we can all be proud of 150 years from now.

Having dyslexia is not a choice; it is an intrinsic part of who I am, woven into the fabric of my being. My earliest memories are filled with confusion and frustration, shaped by a world that did not yet understand how to see me, let alone support me. This reflection, drawn from my experiences between the ages of five and ten, offers more than an account of personal struggle—it is a window into a time and a system unprepared to meet minds like mine with compassion or comprehension.

According to the World Federation of Neurology, dyslexia is defined as a disorder characterized by difficulty in learning to read despite conventional instruction, adequate intelligence, and sociocultural opportunity. It stems from fundamental cognitive differences, often neurological in origin. For me, it manifested early. But without a name, it became a source of misinterpretation. My struggles were perceived as laziness, my quiet confusion mistaken for lack of intelligence.

Dyslexia rarely comes alone. I also dealt with dysgraphia (difficulty writing), and dyscalculia (difficulty with numbers), as well as deficits in organizational skills and fine motor coordination. These are not isolated quirks—they are interwoven symptoms of a brain that processes differently. I am left-handed, a trait not uncommon among dyslexics, which further complicated my ability to learn from teachers who, in those days, had no training or tools to adapt to my needs.

Imagine being five years old and unable to tie your shoes while your peers master it with ease. Imagine struggling to tell time on an analog clock until age ten—not for lack of effort, but because your brain simply couldn’t decode it the way others could. These weren’t just personal failures. They were public humiliations. Every missed step, every backward letter, became a fresh wound.

My school did not know what to do with me. I was placed in special education classes designed for children with severe psychological and cognitive disorders—conditions far removed from dyslexia. This mismatch was more than educational malpractice; it was emotionally devastating. I was intelligent, curious, hungry to learn, but constantly told—through looks, tones, and lowered expectations—that I didn’t belong. My defiance in school wasn’t rebellion for its own sake; it was the cry of a child who felt exiled from the world of potential.

Teachers, often frustrated, labeled me as slow or unteachable. And in their frustration, they punished not just me—but my father. Many of them knew him through the local school board, where he served as president and vice president, despite working nights in a factory and managing a 180-acre cattle farm. To them, this wasn’t respectable. They judged his labor and punished his child. I became a pawn in a petty, local war of class and politics. The personal became political. And my education suffered for it.

By the age of eight, I had undergone a battery of tests. I was evaluated by pediatricians, psychologists, and nutritionists. The tests started early in the morning and lasted hours. The aim? To determine whether I was, in the cruel language of the time, “retarded.” That was the term they used—blunt, stigmatizing, and devastating. When the results came back, they showed what my parents already knew: I was not only of average intelligence, but had an exceptional memory and creative mind. What I lacked was a system willing to teach me as I was.

My parents bore the brunt of the battle. My mother attended countless meetings where she had to defend my right to an education, often walking into rooms already loaded with judgment. My father, already carrying the weight of two demanding jobs, fought quiet political battles to protect my dignity. They did everything they could—from hiring tutors to driving me to Gadsden for special programs. But still, the system loomed large.

My older brother David, nine years my senior, was the family’s academic star. Straight A’s, college scholarships, athletic excellence. I loved him, admired him, but his success cast a long shadow. My grades—Ds and Fs—felt like a stain. Not because anyone said so directly, but because I saw the worry in my parents’ eyes, the unspoken question: Why is this so hard for him?

The answer, though invisible then, was neurological. Dyslexia is not a flaw of will. It’s not a failure of effort. It’s a difference in wiring—a brain more right-sided than left, more intuitive than sequential. That imbalance explains not only the academic challenges but the motor skill issues, the speech reversals, the slow acquisition of seemingly basic tasks. For decades, society saw these traits and labeled them deficiencies. Today, we know better. Or at least, we’re beginning to.

When I reflect on those early years, I feel grief—but not just for myself. I grieve for every child whose gifts go unrecognized because they don’t fit a mold. I grieve for the years lost to misunderstanding and shame. But I also feel something else: responsibility. A responsibility to tell this story truthfully and openly so that others might feel seen, might feel less alone, and might recognize that their “deficiencies” are often disguised strengths.

Today, we have better science, better tools, and better language. But the fight is not over. Stigma remains. Systems still fail. And children still suffer. That is why I write. That is why I lead. Not to relive old wounds, but to build a new legacy—from the raw material of those wounds.

If this story speaks to you, if it stirs something in your own memory or your own mission, then I invite you to walk with us. To believe in what we are building. To see, in faith, what we do not yet fully behold. For this is not just the story of one man’s childhood—it is the soul of a movement, one small engine climbing toward hope, toward legacy, toward a future where every child is seen, taught, and loved for who they truly are.

May we live not just in pursuit of what is possible—but in faith that the invisible can become visible, the unheard voice finally heard, and the least likely of us carry the greatest story forward.

By: Darryl Fuhrman