The diagnosis of dyslexia has made me happier

Discovers the one I have dyslexiaand most likely dyscalculialater in life has raised many questions for me, not least whether a childhood diagnosis would have changed the trajectory of my life, both personally and professionally.

Over the years I suspected that I might be dyslexic. I also thought I was making excuses for myself when I encountered certain challenges. It wasn’t until last year that I decided to ask for a review to confirm either way. I was relieved to read in the first paragraph of my diagnostic report that my reading difficulties are consistent with the specific learning difficulties of dyslexia.

Growing up in the late 1970s, I, like most of us, knew nothing about educational classifications. I had never heard of dyslexia, dyscalculia or neurodiversity. I struggled with it all through school. I was a daydreamer and a slow learner, although I masked this with my lively and bubbly personality. I was the class clown and spent significant amounts of time on the outside of the classroom door, ostracized for distracting my friends and talking too much. At the time, I attributed my poor spelling, difficulty remembering words, and stumbling when reading to the fact that I was actually a “fat guy.”

How different would my life have been if I had known about dyslexia? Would this knowledge have freed me and reduced the pressure I put on myself to prove that I could succeed? Alternatively, would I have used the information to limit myself – would I have given up, stopped striving? In other words: where is the line between a label that limits us and a concept that sets us free?

Fortunately, I like questions. As a story trainer, I encourage participants to dwell on the questions they have about a story, no matter how insignificant, because once we have an answer, we stop asking and move on. I believe the treasure lies not in the answers, but in our questions, our curiosity for deeper understanding.

I’m curious whether or not a diagnosis of neurodiversity is liberating, or whether these labels can limit and prohibit us. I know for a fact that the stories we tell ourselves, and the stories imposed on us by others, have a powerful effect on the way we define ourselves and how we live our lives.

I recently met a woman who confided that after 35 years of marriage and four adult children, she had been diagnosed with: ADHD/ASD and dyslexia. After a lifetime of being angry with herself, she said: ‘I can’t explain it, it all fell away in an instant. All the disgust I felt about myself is gone.”

In retrospect, I also begin to understand how my lifelong questions—such as why I seem unable to learn certain things, process and remember dates, names, directions, and instructions—have turned into statements. Have I turned these questions into a narrative that I imposed on myself and that others reflected back to me?

As a child I took piano lessons, which I hated. I could never remember the notes, even as I developed a complicated system for myself of repeating, “Every good boy deserves favors” while counting on my fingers. My teachers were annoyed. I felt like a failure and had trouble reading music while others seemed to find it easy.

Many years later, determined to learn an instrument, I found a kind and patient recorder teacher. Slowly, slowly, practicing every day, I started playing a series of tunes, elated and enjoying this small victory. One day I casually mentioned my method for memorizing the notes on the page related to fingering on the recorder.

“You shouldn’t do it like that,” my teacher said, and he explained how I could “correct” this. I was confused and couldn’t understand what was so clear to her. I put the recorder down and made excuses, both to myself and to her, as to why I had to cancel my upcoming classes. That day I confirmed my own story that I cannot learn to read music.

Although I may have difficulty with music, I have always loved words. I like to communicate. I am a self-confessed chatterbox and feel at home sharing oral stories, or making up spontaneous stories. When I was twenty, through various twists of fate, I ended up in theater administration. When I became general manager of several theatres, I struggled to keep up with all the reading material: reports, research and policy papers, general and industry news. I felt overwhelmed, and every time more paperwork came in, I panicked, causing anxiety to build up in me, scattering my thoughts and clouding my judgment.

I didn’t tell anyone, but I woke up early and stayed late to catch up. I was in an almost hyper-alert state and had to listen with every fiber of my being to find ways to understand. If I was good at my job, it was because I could make up a great story, watch and listen.

When I first started a theater production company in collaboration with John Miller, who later became my husband, I asked him to edit my writing, my letters and stories. I emailed him copies of my writing and in the subject line I always wrote, “Please weave your magic on this.” In response, he rearranged the paragraphs and removed my excessive embellishments. Long sentences were interrupted and shortened, my spelling was corrected.

One day, maybe a year before he died, I emailed John and, as always, asked him to weave his magic. His answer came quickly and contained only four words: “No more magic required.” Slowly, very slowly, I had learned. He didn’t preach, he didn’t teach me anything, he just showed me by example how to become a better writer.

Unfortunately, Jan passed away before I started writing my first book, Seven secrets of spontaneous storytelling. When my publishers asked me to write a bibliography celebrating the books that had inspired and informed my work, it was immediately clear that what I had learned did not come from the written word. It all came down to experiential learning, through courses, through listening, absorbing what was happening around me in all its forms, talking to people and being together.

I am naturally quick-witted. I can make decisions and react quickly to situations – this is probably why spontaneous storytelling is one of my favorite genres. I follow my impulses and instincts, which have served me well.

As I’ve discovered more about the way my brain works, I’ve given myself permission to pause so my thoughts can catch up with my instincts. Now I am less hard and demanding on myself and reap the countless benefits that this more relaxed state of mind brings. So much is opening up for me, including the wonderful discovery of graphic novels and voice memos. By gaining a better understanding of how I learn and work, I can embrace the gifts that come with the diagnosis: for example, quirky, creative thinking and a playful, often childlike imagination. I recently read that I am in good company. Some of the world’s most successful entrepreneurs, including Walt Disney, Steve Jobs and Richard Branson, have been diagnosed with dyslexia.

For as long as I can remember, I have been masking what I consider serious flaws in my character, believing that I should know more and be better. Now that I’m on my way to cronehood, I’m no longer so afraid to ask for help where I need it. I understand my desire to have a dialogue on the phone rather than a series of monologues via email. I accept more easily that I don’t have to be more than I am. As I drop the mask, I feel the fear disappear and the joy in my life increase.

At the end of my diagnostic testing last year, my assessor noted that she had seen me use a range of strategies to answer her questions. She even suggested that I could help others if I shared my processes. I felt comfort knowing that these coping mechanisms have helped me navigate my life.

Dyslexia is part of who I am, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that this diagnosis informs me, not defines me. I have more tolerance for myself and have discovered new compassion for others as a result. Do I wish I had known sooner? My instincts tell me that I would have followed my dreams much sooner, but… Sliding doorsI’m here anyway, and that’s the most important thing.

Seven Secrets of Spontaneous Storytelling by Danyah Miller is published by Hawthorn Press for £14.99. Join Danyah for a Lunchtime Storytelling event at the RSA on May 16; book a visit danyahmillerstoryteller.co.uk