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For most of my life…

For most of my life, I didn’t know I was dyslexic.
I just knew that reading and writing felt harder for me than they seemed to be for everyone else.

It wasn’t until my junior year of high school that something happened—unexpected, uncomfortable, and oddly clarifying—that changed how I understood my own brain.

The Night Everything Clicked

At the time, I was working at a local department store. Naturally, I was assigned to the music department. One night, my manager asked if I could come in overnight to help with inventory.

Back then, inventory meant writing everything down by hand.

Each product had an eight-digit SKU number, and my job was to carefully record every number and the quantity we had in stock. It was repetitive, detailed, and required focus. I worked for eight straight hours, overnight, doing exactly what I was asked to do.

I left that shift exhausted, but proud. I had shown up. I had done the work.

The Question I Wasn’t Expecting

The next morning, I was called into the office.

My boss was not happy.

He asked me a question that stopped me cold:
“Are you dyslexic?”

I remember just staring at him.

He went on to explain that every single SKU number I had written down was wrong. Every one of them had been transposed. Numbers flipped. Digits reversed. Patterns scrambled.

Eight hours of work—completely unusable.

It wasn’t a lecture. It wasn’t cruel. It was factual. And it changed everything.

Understanding My Brain Without a Diagnosis

Up until that moment, I didn’t have language for what was happening in my brain. I didn’t have an official diagnosis. I just knew that something felt off—especially when it came to reading and writing.

That moment gave me clarity.

Suddenly, my struggles made sense. Why words sometimes looked right but weren’t. Why numbers felt slippery. Why I could feel something was wrong without being able to immediately see it.

Even today, that part hasn’t changed. I can still sense when something is off—but I often need to step away and come back with fresh eyes to catch it.

Why Writing Was Harder Than Typing

In my conversation with Russell Van Brocklen, he talks about the difference between writing something by hand versus typing it. That insight landed deeply for me.

When I write by hand, my brain has to manage too many steps at once—formation, spacing, sequencing, and meaning. Typing, however, removes several of those barriers. Add spell check, and suddenly my thoughts can move forward without getting stuck.

Technology didn’t fix my dyslexia.
But it gave my brain room to work.

Living With Awareness Instead of Shame

That night in the music department didn’t diagnose me—but it changed my relationship with myself.

Instead of blaming myself for being careless or slow, I started paying attention to how I process information. I learned to trust the feeling that tells me something isn’t right. I learned to pause, revisit, and give myself grace.

Most importantly, I learned that struggling doesn’t mean failing.
Sometimes, it just means your brain works differently.

What I Know Now

Today, I type almost everything. Spell check helps immensely. So does distance—stepping away and returning with fresh eyes. These tools don’t replace effort, but they support it.

And conversations like the one I had with Russell remind me how powerful understanding can be—especially when it comes later than we wish it had.

I didn’t know I was dyslexic until I was sixteen.
But I know now.
And knowing changed everything.