Guest blog: Overcoming Dyslexia: Inspired by the Tale of a Brown-Eyed Girl

Today’s post was written by middle-schooler Lydia Wyatt to honor her grandmother, Sudie Wyatt. psalm71blog was begun to remind us of the importance of sharing God with the next generation. This writing shows the influence that a loving grandmother can have. This young lady had developed a lot of wisdom in a short time.

This journey began in the heart of a story, in the adventures of a brown-eyed girl and a blue-eyed boy, told to me by a woman who taught me the power of my words. My grandmother was a person who constructively changed my life. She was a beacon of wisdom and love, her guidance helped me through life’s challenges, and her stories showed me that hard work is worth the effort. She encouraged me to follow my dreams and always encouraged me to look at everything positively. She inspired me to work hard and never give up on my goals.

When I was younger, I remember being told stories of “the brown-eyed girl,” who I assumed was me. After the birth of my brother, she told me stories of “the bright-eyed children.” My grandmother always referred to my sibling and me as “the brown-eyed girl” and “the brown-eyed boy. Over time, the memories of the stories grew into a love for storytelling and literary works that I hold very close to my heart.

At some point, I had memorized most of her stories, and I could sometimes, even somewhat tell them back to her. I had, on a few occasions, asked her to write down her stories. To this day, only two of her works are in my possession; my grandfather gave them to me shortly after her death. The rest were lost to the past. I was only about seven when she passed, and because of this, I have few proper recollections of her and her stories. The two that I have I like to think of as keys to remember her. A sort of memorial that holds more love than coiuld ever be expressed in words.

My grandmother died only a few weeks after the birth of my second brother. I was probably in second grade at the time. I was diagnosed with dyslexia. I didn’t understand at that age what it really meant, so silly, childish me was excited. I often didn’t contribute my hardships to dyslexia in any way, and I honestly almost forgot that I had it.

My dyslexia is sometimes a difficult burden to bear, though other times it feels ike a wondrous blessing. Back during those years, I was pulled out of classes often to be tested and receive extra help. Writing anything was a struggle. Like a picture that was copied so many times, the words were no longer recognizable when they were finally in ink. The words I pictured in my mind were not the same after I wrote them down.

My grandmother instilled in me a passion for learning and a belief in what might have been impossible. Finding strength in what she left me, I overcame what at the time was my greatest challenge, properly articulating my thoughts on paper. Letters, words, and sentences are like puzzle pieces that don’t fit into particular areas of my brain, and because of this, I don’t understand how the three fit together, the way other people do.

When finding a way through what to me looks like a mess, I’ve found it helpful to stop viewing it as a mess and more of a creative order. This is the way I believe she would have wanted me to think. I think she would have wanted me to understand that hardships will present themselves in a way that is difficult to wrap my head around but that by taking the time to do so, I become a stronger person.

When times were hopeless, my grandmother’s stories were reminders to keep moving forward and that it was okay to be different. In some of my most frustrating times, her stories were still by my side, driving me to keep going no matter what.

I held my grandmother’s stories close to me. A reminder that I was “the brown-eyed girl,” the girl who could vanquish monsters, demons, and do anything. In second grade, near the end of the year, I wrote a story about my teacher. I had worked on it for days in class. It was silly and full of spelling mistakes. I read it differently each time, but I was still proud of it. By the end of the year, I had learned to read simple texts and conquered my fear of writing.

Looking back on her stories, I see they have had a positive influence on my life. The memories of these stories inspire me to work through my disabilities. I go above and beyond to prove that I will not be defined by my struggles but by my triumphs. Reflecting on her tales often reminds me that nothing is impossible.

I see the world as a place I will only be for so long. I will only live once; my grandmother’s death taught me this lesson in a way that showed me how important life is. She taught me that being serious is important, but it’s also all right to be silly and crack a joke now and then. I learned the power of creativity, the importance of words, and the ignorable potential to think outside the box. Her influence and creativity extend beyond her life and continue to inspire me to endure, even when facing hard times.