Reflection on Growth and Resilience
In my early years, I often perceived myself as the less academically inclined child in my family. My grandmother dismissed my struggles as mere laziness, a sentiment I unconsciously adopted. In stark contrast, my cousin shone brightly as the academically gifted one, and while I genuinely admired her accomplishments, I grappled with feelings of inadequacy. My cousin and grandmother enjoyed engaging in educational activities together, while I preferred the comforts of watching television or playing with my toys. This divergence in interests led me to distance myself from them, refusing to be perceived as the third wheel. Consequently, I often chose to withdraw during family gatherings, even opting to retire to bed early during our evening prayers. When I spent time with my cousin, it was primarily for play, and my moments with my grandmother revolved around watching TV. Yet, as my grandmother began to notice my growing disengagement, she started encouraging me to join in on family prayers. It was not that they intended to exclude me; rather, it felt as though their intellectual pursuits were on a level I struggled to grasp, which left me feeling frustrated.
This frustration inadvertently drew me closer to my grandfather, who was a skilled handyman. I believe my aptitude for crafting and building is a reflection of the influence he had on me. I remember constructing makeshift creations around the house, such as transforming chairs and my old Dora the Explorer table into a princess carriage. Recognizing my newfound passion for building, my grandmother gifted me a magnetic building kit. This kit, featuring magnetic balls and sticks, allowed me to create towers and pyramids, which further fueled my enthusiasm for construction. As I progressed, we transitioned to Legos, and I would spend countless hours immersed in building activities alongside my cousin.
A pivotal moment in my educational journey occurred when I entered pre-kindergarten. I vividly recall my grandmother walking me to the classroom, helping me find my seat adorned with my name. Ms. Simmons, my first teacher, left a lasting impression on me with her warm smile, dark brown hair, and reassuring presence. Even during moments of embarrassment, such as when I had an accident, she exuded an aura of support and encouragement. Ms. Simmons cultivated an inclusive environment that made it evident to me that, while I might not excel academically, my strengths lay in the arts. This realization spurred my passion for dancing, drawing, and singing—areas where I felt empowered to excel through practice and exploration.
Every Thursday, I participated in dance classes under the guidance of Ms. Angelina. Unlike the stereotypical "dance mom," my grandmother allowed my talent to shine through natural merit. Ms. Angelina was particularly inspiring; her accent and graceful movements captivated me. I learned to observe her closely, mimicking her techniques while identifying common mistakes made by my peers. She frequently praised my progress, which, at the time, I interpreted as affirmation without fully grasping the meaning of "progressing." I relished my role in the upcoming "Nutcracker" performance, diligently rehearsing until I knew the routine inside and out.
On the day of the showcase, I was elated to discover that Ms. Simmons was in attendance, much to my surprise. After delivering my performance, an elderly woman approached me, expressing her admiration and requesting a photograph. This moment encapsulated my aspirations, igniting a determination within me to pursue my dream of becoming a dancer—a pursuit I remain committed to today.
However, as I advanced to fifth grade, I encountered challenges that tested my resolve. I was placed in a class that diminished my physical education time, and I found the teaching style condescending, as if we were being spoken to as if we were much younger. This experience revealed to me just how different my academic journey was compared to my peers, making me acutely aware of my struggles with reading and writing. Throughout this period, my self-doubt intensified as I grappled with feelings of inadequacy, questioning why I had not mastered skills that seemed effortless for others.
My grandmother’s decision to initiate an assessment for learning difficulties stemmed from her belief that my struggles were not due to a lack of effort. Once the evaluation began, I was subjected to a series of questions aimed at gauging my cognitive abilities. When I was eventually informed that I had dyslexia, it felt as though a weight had been lifted, yet I grappled with the implications of this label. My initial reaction was one of frustration and disappointment—an overwhelming sense that the diagnosis was a reflection of my intelligence or worth.
For some time, I allowed sadness to morph into anger, using it as a tool for escape. My emotional turmoil was exacerbated by external circumstances, including my grandfather’s hospitalization and the strains of adolescence. Nevertheless, I learned that life continues to unfold, regardless of personal struggles or losses. My dyslexia became a part of my identity, one that I needed to accept and manage rather than evade. I recognized that seeking help and allowing myself additional time for tasks was not a sign of weakness but a step toward cultivating better self-understanding and self-love.
Ultimately, I faced a choice: to continue running from my challenges or embrace them as integral to my journey. I chose the latter, learning to appreciate not only my strengths but also the hurdles I have encountered. Each misstep and setback contributes to the person I am today, and even the aspects of myself that require extra support are deserving of acceptance. The experience of living with dyslexia has shaped my resilience and will continue to influence my aspirations and self-perception as I navigate my future.