I’m Not Broken. Just Misunderstood

The problem isn’t my dyspraxia. It’s a society that doesn’t understand what it’s like to live with a hidden disability.

Me approximately 9 or 10 years old. It was around this time I got diagnosed with dyspraxia. Photo taken by my family and used with permission.

I was nine years old the first time I realized my brain didn’t work like everyone else’s. My teacher handed out a handwriting exercise. Just one page. Contained clear instructions that were direct and easy to follow.

“It’ll only take 5 minutes.”

The other kids got started right away. Pencils moved in smooth, fast loops. Neat lines. But I was still figuring out how to hold mine. Thumb tucked too far in. Fingers curled like they were gripping wire, not writing words. And by the time I finished writing the first sentence, my letters had already started to drift. Some floated above the line. Others crashed into each other.

What came next was inevitable. The sigh. The lean-in. The correction.

“You need to hurry up!” my teacher said.

Like I wasn’t already.

That’s what no one ever seemed to see. That every word took extra effort. Not just to think, but to translate. From my brain to my hand to the page. They saw terrible handwriting. Not everything that came before it.