By: Sarah Thompson
Updated: Oct. 7, 2023
Originally Published: Oct. 8, 2012
As I entered my daughter Lily’s third-grade classroom, her teacher, Ms. Brown, gently touched my arm. “I need to discuss something about Lily,” she said. Just hearing those words sent waves of anxiety crashing over me, as every parent knows that this could mean anything—most of it not good. My mind raced through all the worst-case scenarios, and let’s be honest, it usually doesn’t jump to the positive.
I first sensed something was off during kindergarten—call it a mother’s instinct. It started with sight words; every single night would end in tears. I grew increasingly frustrated when she’d mix up we with me or in with it. How could she not see the difference? “Just sound it out,” I would urge her. “What sound does ‘m’ make?” She could recite letter sounds perfectly when quizzed, but when it came to linking those sounds with the letters on the page, it just didn’t click.
When she brought home her first reader, I was over the moon. Since the moment she was born, I had dreamed of sharing my love of books with her. But as we sat down to read together, she stumbled and said the words seemed to dance around. It was frustrating for both of us. What should have been a delightful bonding experience turned into a nightly battle filled with tears.
Her teacher reassured me that this was all part of her development, yet the struggles continued into first grade. Her reading grades slipped, and homework became a nightmare. She still complained of the words dancing, and her handwriting was nearly impossible to read. Spelling felt like a horror show, and I found myself becoming the monster. “Just write the words five times, and you’ll memorize them,” I would instruct as tears streamed down her face while reading the little books from school. “Are you really trying?” I would ask, now cringing at those words. Deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. I approached her teacher again. “Do you think she might have dyslexia?” I asked. “Just wait,” she replied. I waited, and things only seemed to get worse.
At the end-of-year conference, I finally received the news: Lily needed to be tested for dyslexia as soon as the school year began. Her teacher believed it had progressed beyond a simple developmental issue. I agreed that we should wait until summer ended.
After navigating a challenging second-grade year with an unsupportive teacher, Lily’s grades plummeted to Cs, and her self-esteem took a hit. She felt “stupid” and believed she couldn’t succeed. Finally, in March of her second-grade year, she was tested and diagnosed with dyslexia and Irlen syndrome, a condition that causes words to dance on the page.
Her dyslexia intervention teacher said, “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for her. I don’t understand how she’s managed to keep her grades as high as she has.” I did, of course. I’m her mom, and I knew her strength.
That day in Lily’s third-grade classroom, my heart raced. I thought she was doing so well. Finally, once the kids settled, Ms. Brown approached me with a bright smile. “Lily is doing amazing! We love having her in class and can’t believe how much she’s improved this year. We are so proud of her.” In that moment, I truly understood the meaning of pride.
A year and a half after her diagnosis, I walked into her room one night to tuck her in. I settled into my usual spot on her bed, and we pulled the covers up. “Read me a story,” I said with a grin. “Sure, but be quiet and listen,” she giggled back. For the next twenty minutes, she read me a book of her choice. Sure, there were some tough words and a few stumbles, and occasionally she’d mix up throw for though. But she was reading to me. My baby was finally learning to read.
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Summary
This heartfelt account details a mother’s journey navigating her daughter Lily’s struggles with dyslexia. From the initial signs in kindergarten to her eventual diagnosis and progress in third grade, the story emphasizes the importance of understanding, support, and the joy of overcoming challenges together.