There’s something no parent wants to admit—but a lot of us feel it: that gut-twisting moment when you realise your child’s struggling, and no one else seems to notice. Or worse, they do notice, but they wave it off with a clipboard and a comforting, “They all develop at different rates.”

We first clocked something wasn’t right back in Year 2, when our son brought home a reading book he’d already read the week before. No big deal, we thought. Maybe it was just a mix-up. Surely he’d be moving up to the next level soon? His older sibling had rocketed through the reading stages at that age and was nearly on free reading. But of course—you can’t compare them, we were told.

Then came his younger sibling, still in Year 1, creeping up fast behind him. She was nearly on the same reading level. Before long, reading time at home turned into a full-on grey group showdown—who would get off it first and make it to free reading?

It wasn’t about pressure—we just wanted to understand why he was stuck. Why reading didn’t click for him like it had for the others.

When he moved to Year 3, things didn’t magically improve. The big leap from infants to juniors only made the gap more obvious. He was still having phonics interventions, still on guided reading, while his younger sibling—then in Year 2—was speeding through the final stretch of the dreaded grey group.

Year after year, we asked the questions. Raised the concerns. But we kept getting the same vague reassurances: “He’s a visual learner,” “He’s just not ready yet,” or the classic, “Boys develop later.”

Then came the spelling tests. Ten words a week. We sat with him every night, practising with repetition, silly sentences, breaking them down, building them back up. Some nights were smooth. Others? Full-on pencil-launching frustration. But he kept trying, every single week.

The night before the test, he’d usually know them. We’d say, “You’ve got this.” But Friday would roll around, and he’d come out of school with his head low, muttering, “I only got 3 out of 10.” Or 5. If he was lucky—8 or 9. But it never stuck. It was like the words vanished the second he walked into school.

And then we started noticing more at home.

Weekends were for family board games—something fun, something to bring everyone together. But when it came time to read a question card out loud, he would struggle. His younger sibling would breeze through hers fluently, no bother. But he would sound out each word, slowly, painfully. Sentences came out so elongated it was hard to follow, and someone would usually end up gently taking the card to read it again, just so we could keep the game moving.

It was frustrating. For him. For us. And you could see how it chipped away at his confidence.

At his Year 4 parents evening, we brought it all up again—reading struggles, spelling woes, even the board game moments. The teacher nodded sympathetically and said she’d speak to the SENCO. She even said if he was dyslexic, it would be “very mild.”

But nothing happened.

Then came Year 5. Another parents evening, another conversation. His new teacher listened and nodded again. Said he’d speak to the SENCO. Again.

Months passed. Still nothing.

And then, casually, at school pick-up one day, his teacher drops it in:

“Oh, by the way, we did an eye strain test on him. Turns out with a purple overlay he can read over a minute faster. Dyslexia screening will happen next week.”

Just like that. A bombshell dropped with the same weight as “He forgot his lunchbox.”

Then came the day of the screening. We didn’t get a formal sit-down. Just a passing comment from the teacher:

“He scored a 1 on the dyslexia screener. 0.9 and above is classed as high risk.”

One.
That’s not mild. That’s not borderline. That’s a flashing neon sign that says “This kid needs help.”

And suddenly it all made sense. The reading, the spelling, the memory struggles. The way he’d get the words one night and lose them the next. The slow, careful reading in games. The pencil-throwing frustration. The hurt look when he knew he’d tried but still fallen short.

But here’s the thing—he has skills. Real ones.

He’s the first one I turn to when there’s flatpack furniture involved. He can follow diagrams better than most adults I know. He makes a mean chilli con carne and a cracking spaghetti bolognese. He can rewire a plug without blinking and once took apart a remote control car just to rebuild it—with extra mods. Give him tools, tech, or a pan and he’s in his element.

This isn’t a label. It’s an explanation. It’s the start of a new chapter.

Because our son isn’t lazy. He isn’t behind because he can’t be bothered. He’s not slow, he’s not forgetful, he’s not a “late developer.” He’s just wired differently. And now we know that.

He’s clever in ways that aren’t always obvious on paper. A builder, a fixer, a problem solver. And most importantly—he never gives up.

If you’re reading this and seeing your own child in his story, trust your gut. Ask the questions. Ask again. And again if you need to. Because no one knows your child better than you do—and no one’s going to fight for them like you will.

We’re proud of our son. Not just because he’s dyslexic—but because he’s brilliant.
He just happens to read life in a different font.