The Literary Narrative

I grew up in a home that teetered on the edge of the ordinary, a place where the

The noise of daily life often overshadowed the silent struggle in my mind. Being homeschooled was both a blessing and a challenge. While the freedom to learn at my own pace allowed me to grow, my struggle with dyslexia overshadowed my initial relationship with reading and writing. Words had never been allies; they had been riddles, and their pieces rarely aligned.

I lived in a lovely, quiet neighborhood where everything felt cozy and safe. While I didn’t engage much with others, my shyness and anxiety made that even more pronounced. Rather than experiencing bustling classrooms or lively playgrounds, my education unfolded in the warm nooks of my home, filled with books and lessons lovingly created by my parent-teacher. My family nurtured a passion for learning, even though reading often felt like an enormous mountain to climb. Dyslexia transformed words into puzzling codes on the page, making every sentence a little challenge and each book a true test of perseverance and fear.

But somehow, despite everything, storytelling began to call my name. My mother’s patience served as an anchoring force. She would read aloud to me, and her voice brought characters and settings to life. Through her storytelling, I was inspired to love narratives, even when the words themselves were difficult to grasp. There was something special about stories, they were a sanctuary, a safe space where my imagination could run wild without the constraints of my realities.

Writing, however, was a completely different experience. My shyness made it difficult for me to express myself. My thoughts flowed easily, but transferring them to paper was a struggle for me. Often being paired with ridicule from my older sister in attempts to try.

 I hesitated to write words even though no one else was reading them but me, wondering what I might say and to whom I might say it, fearing judgment. Journaling was my first breakthrough. It was private, and the freedom to write for no one else was liberating for my thoughts. Gradually, my journal became a space where I could develop my ideas without the fear of getting it “wrong.”

Over the years, my relationship with the written word blossomed in wonderful ways. My parents’ dedication to finding resources that suited my needs, like audiobooks and dyslexia-friendly texts, opened the door to incredible stories that once felt beyond my grasp. Audiobooks came into my life like a warm embrace, whisking me away to enchanting worlds that I was excited to explore. It was authors like C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien who sparked a delightful sense of wonder in me, showing me just how beautiful words can be when they dance together.

Today, reading and writing are truly central to who I am. I’ve embraced a new approach, not letting my challenges define how much joy I can find in these activities or how actively I can engage in them. Writing, in particular, has transformed from a source of anxiety into a wonderful outlet for creativity. It’s become a beautiful way for me to share ideas that were once kept hidden away. Even my experience with dyslexia has enriched my voice as a writer, reminding me to be persistent and patient on this journey.

My own literacy journey mirrors the narratives I have grown to love in many ways: it is a story of overcoming hurdles, realizing strengths in what was thought to be weakness, and finding fun within something that felt impossible. I have learned to stand and to voice determination, magic, and fight. It’s still a work in progress, but one I now approach with gratitude and hope.