FILED UNDER: UNSEEN STRUGGLES- THE THINGS ABOUT GROWING UP MISUNDERSTOOD_ BY YEMI AND THE PEN.

I was seven years old when I came to the startling realisation that my parents loved my sister more than me.

Toni and I were knee-deep in a physical fight in our shared room. We were brawling because she took my last good pencil. I had had enough of her being high and mighty and thinking she had access to my property. I yelled at her; she slapped me. That was where it began.

I kicked her in the shin, she returned the favor and pushed me into the bed frame. I went head-first into the wood and my forehead started to drip. My hands found her face and I dragged my fingernails down her cheek. Whether it was accidental or intentional, I still don’t know. 

Toni screamed. That attracted the attention of my parents who were peacefully watching TV. 

My mum’s appearance registered shocked at the sight of our blood-stained clothes. 

Obviously, they believed Toni over me.

She was the one to get her words out fast enough. She spun the entire situation in her favor and made me the villain. Mum and dad were angry about the fact that I could permanently scar Toni's ‘beautiful face’. I was fairly certain they could see that mine was also injured. But they aimed their tirade at me instead of scolding us both.

They told me to have just let Toni have the pencil since she uses it for more important things anyway. All I did was draw. I couldn’t read, I couldn’t write properly. The little I could write was illegible because I had the worst handwriting. It was merely a tangle of lines and curves.

Hearing my own parents throw my struggles back at me broke something inside me. At seven years old, I realised for the first time how they saw me.

Toni was their miracle baby. My parents had been trying for a child for five years before they had her. She was unexpected. She was joy. She was not me. 

Me? 

What was I? 

I was a mistake. 

My parents had planned to stop at one child after Toni. Her birth had come with serious complications; it was understandable. Three years later, my mother went to the hospital with what she thought was a stubborn stomach ache. They told her she was pregnant. I was the child.

Toni was a lovely, bright kid. She took her first steps at 12 months and spoke at 13 months. I didn’t walk till I was fifteen months and didn’t start talking till I was two.

She mastered reading and writing before most children learned to hold a pencil. I, on the other hand, wrestled with words and letters well into secondary school. 

She always took first position in class. For me, being second-to-last sometimes was a lucky occurrence. People often asked me if I was certain Toni and I were sisters. 

While she excelled, I fell flat. My parents saw me as the problem child. They believed I was under the influence of spiritual attacks. They sought answers from pastors and prophets. They spent money on tutors, learning programs, and whatnot that yielded no results.

 

I wanted to do well, I really did. But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t measure up.

By the time I was twelve, I had given up trying. Homework was a battlefield, report cards were just a shameful reminder of what a failure I was. I started to believe what everyone around me seemed to think: that I was simply lazy, careless, or not as smart as Toni.

When I was fourteen, my school hired a new English teacher. I dreaded meeting her because I always made a bad first impression on new teachers. 

But at the end of her third lesson with my class, she called me aside. She didn’t scold me or try to motivate me to do better. She asked questions. She listened. 

Within a few weeks, she made an arrangement with my parents for me to be evaluated. That was when I was finally diagnosed with dyslexia. 

This was the key turning point in my life. 

Finally, there was an explanation. And with that explanation came a plan. My English teacher began to teach me differently, with patience, and practical methods compatible with how my brain worked. 

During one of our lessons, she revealed that her younger brother was also dyslexic, so she knew how to help. In fact, she was very interested in helping. My parents refused to be involved, convinced it would lead to another disappointment.

Slowly, the fog began to lift. Reading was still hard, but it was no longer impossible. Writing became less of a war.

By the time I was in senior secondary school, I had started to regain my confidence. I even began sharing my story online, first on a small blog, then on social media. I wrote about what dyslexia really was, about how many children struggle in silence and get mislabeled as “difficult” or “lazy.” 

My posts began to reach parents and teachers. Strangers wrote to me, saying my words helped them see their children differently. 

That shaped who I am now. I had a clear career path in mind, and I was going to follow it through.

Today, I’m an advocate for children with learning differences. Children who sit at the back of the class feeling inadequate, children who are just versions of my younger self. I partner with schools and NGOs to create awareness and train teachers. 

Once the girl who hid her report cards and felt small in the world, I now stand in classrooms telling kids they are not broken.

I hope my name will be mentioned alongside those who made a difference.

As for my family, things took time. At first my parents were defensive. But the more they saw me work, the more they heard my talks and read my articles, the more their perspective shifted. My mother once cried as she told me she wished someone had explained dyslexia to her sooner. My father now donates to programs that support children like me.

Toni and I are still different. But the good kind of different. 

I can’t fault her for things that happened when we were kids. We were unwillingly pit against each other. We were both caught in our parents’ expectations. I imagine she felt her own pressures.

She sometimes comes to my events, sitting quietly at the back of the room. When I finish, she claps the loudest. 

There are so many people cheering me on and wishing me success. 

Nevertheless, I have now come to the absolute realisation that no one can love you more than you love yourself.

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

 AUTHOR'S NOTE

Memory truly is a fickle thing.

If you asked me what I had for breakfast yesterday, I'd have to think for a few seconds before answering. 

However, if you asked me about a movie that left a lasting impression on me, I wouldn't hesitate to say: "Like Stars on Earth". When I watched this movie for the first time, I was eleven years old. And somehow, I never forgot it. 

The movie tells the story of a dyslexic young boy who is misunderstood by practically everyone around him. He is sent away to a boarding school where he meets a teacher who understands him completely. This teacher gradually helps him work through his issues, because he saw beyond what everyone else thought they knew about this young boy. 

I saw how the gentleness of a teacher can bring out the best in a student. How much more impactful understanding is over judgment.

That movie shaped how I see the process of learning, and perhaps even influenced my decision to become an educator.

It taught me that while learners are different, the way we measure intelligence should not be rigid. Some students struggle not because they are unwilling, but because of circumstances beyond their control. And sometimes, all it takes is one person willing to look a little closer.

It is important for educators to be attentive to the classroom needs of their students. 

And not just noticing, but taking action.

I re-watched "Like Stars on Earth" recently and it inspired me to write this short story. 

Art influences art. 

 © Yemi and the Pen 

- Nigeria