“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
“Focus,” I told myself. “You only have 6 hours 42 minutes to finish.” I had read the opening sentence of the exam seven times, and the words weren’t sticking.
When I was 12, I was diagnosed with dyslexia. I was told that I would be given extra time in school. Somewhere along the way, my understanding of my “learning disability” morphed into a deep, irrational belief that I was a fraud, had cheated the system, and fooled the tester not just that day in 2002, but when I was tested again in 2006, 2010, and 2014.
I don’t know what it was about this day, this hour, this test, but as I sat there, in a room so silent I could hear water dripping from pipes above, I finally accepted that I was different. It had taken me 15 years and 125 cases to realize I was, in fact, dyslexic. Everyone who said I had an unfair advantage never truly understood my daily obstacle.
But my story isn’t unique. One in five people has some form of dyslexia. I want to inspire people to go beyond owning their differences, to make their differences their superpower. Imagine a world like that.
— Lindsay Rosenblum