Confessions of a dyslexic science teacher

As I stand in my lab, I often see myself in some of my students. They are bright, engaged and keen to learn, but they misread questions and their written work doesn’t reflect their understanding. Sometimes it is because of dyslexia, just like me.

My dyslexia journey

I muddled through school, going on to uni to study chemistry with business studies. It wasn’t until my university lab partner asked to borrow my lecture notes that I realised my notes were not useable by anyone but me.

After a dyslexic screening with the EAL support department, I was left embarrassed, frightened and unsure. This was the first time I realised I saw the world differently and that it was likely to affect me forever.

A full assessment led to dyslexic intervention lessons. They were hard work, alongside degree level chemistry. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t and still can’t hear the syllables or sounds. But, despite my diagnosis, I passed my degree, ended up on a PGCE and then in the classroom.

Making it in a professional world

To get by professionally I was always the first to volunteer for things that came easy for me. I donated my time and expertise hoping to pay it forward and build up a network of kind-hearted colleagues to check my written work and keep me on track for meetings.

If sharing my experiences helps another learner, then speaking openly about my dyslexia feels not only worthwhile but necessary

The difficulty of managing online registers, recording behaviour, writing on the board and saying new words and names can take its toll. This high cognitive load is constant. Similarly, managing several activities at once is demanding; for example, greeting students at the classroom door, while encouraging a timely and productive start to the lesson, as well as taking the register and sending notes for vulnerable learners.

Building empathy for dyslexic learners

My school’s MAT has a keen focus on teaching and learning. This has allowed me to steel myself and let people see the real me, sharing first-person experience of having a learning difference. In fact, during a recent training day, I gave a presentation on dyslexia.

I started by trying to build empathy for dyslexic learners, asking teachers to hold up a textbook to a mirror and copy the reflected passage onto lined paper. This emulates the cognitive load dyslexic learners experience writing unfamiliar text in a timed fashion. While they were writing, I commented on their work, putting them under pressure. When I stopped them, I enquired what the passage was about, and no one could tell me. But why?

Because their mental bandwidth was at capacity trying to please me, the teacher, i.e. to follow the rules, to comply with the expectations, focused on the written output rather than on understanding the content. This analogy helps teachers to imagine the daily pressure in lessons for neurodivergent students who are working to conform. There is no bandwidth left for learning.

Often people can’t imagine what written text might look like for dyslexics. So, my presentation included an artist’s impressions of what written prose could look like to a dyslexic with missing characters, incorrect spacing between letters, swirling text and muddling up between lines.

I also showed them items useful for dyslexic learners: coloured overlays to reduce visual stress, a 45^o writing slate to help with reading, smart speakers, dyslexic friendly books and a reading pen which is licensed for use by the Joint Council for Qualifications. In addition, I shared the gifts that dyslexia brings such as big picture vision and out of the box thinking, while also highlighting areas that may need to be adjusted or completed in a different way such as tackling time blindness.

Why disclose my dyslexia now?

There are several reasons I am choosing to share my dyslexia now.

Firstly, after decades in the classroom I no longer feel the need to prove my competence. Earlier in my career, disclosing my dyslexia felt like exposing a vulnerability which might impact on my ability to secure employment.

Secondly, technology has transformed the way many dyslexic professionals work. Tools that support proofreading, spelling, organisation and planning have reduced some of the daily burden, freeing cognitive energy for the parts of the job that matter most. As these tools have become commonplace, working differently is no longer as visible.

Thirdly and possibly most significantly, it’s the young people I teach. Supporting them has shown me how transformative reasonable adjustments and explicit metacognitive strategies can be. It has made me realise brilliant minds should not be limited by barriers that are removable. If sharing my experiences helps another learner recognise their potential, then speaking openly about dyslexia feels not only worthwhile but necessary.

I still love being in the classroom. As I look around and see 30 pairs of eyes waiting for me to perform a demonstration – flash paper, methane bubbles, group 1 metals, the whoosh bottle, it feels like the anticipation of the beat about to drop in the best club ever. I wouldn’t swap that feeling for the world.

For many years I carried a quiet sense of inadequacy, measuring myself against standards that were never designed for minds like mine. Now, however, the time feels right to be honest about my dyslexia. Not because it defines me, but because it has shaped me. If sharing my experiences helps educators better understand their learners or encourages another dyslexic young person to believe in their own potential, then stepping out of the shadows will have been worthwhile.