My gut told me my daughter had dyslexia. I wish I had listened.

“Honey, you’re not trying,” I’d say through gritted teeth as we practiced my daughter’s kindergarten sight words. I’d hold up the index card, and she’d look at a simple word like “cat” and turn away. As my voice got louder, her eyes filled with tears, and we’d give up for the night.

Her teacher assured me she was doing well, so I chalked up the homework struggle to distraction and fatigue. It was kindergarten, after all, and the expectations weren’t high. I chided myself for asking too much from her. Her brother (two years older) was a gifted reader, and it felt unfair to compare her to where he’d been when he was her age.

It’s a strange way to live when you’re constantly questioning your instincts, but no one prepares you for how hard parenting turns out to be. With no manual or instruction guide, you’re left to rely on experts to tell you if something is wrong.

I didn’t know that struggling to sing nursery rhymes or skipping words while reading were early signs of dyslexia.

My daughter couldn’t memorize days of the week or months of the year. And she couldn’t remember how simple words were spelled. Yet she showed signs of brilliant creative thinking, coming up with problem-solving ideas that didn’t make sense to me — until it later dawned on me how right she…