Written by Liz Evans
As Mary Poppins once said, “Let’s start at the very beginning.”
School!
The signs were there, I just didn’t know it.
I hated school. There are well-told stories in our family of me being an “anxious child”, crying in the mornings before school, even as early as nursery school, and my mum getting a heads-up from the teacher as I came out of school that all was not well.
The thing is, in school, I was compliant, desperate to do the right thing, and worked really, really hard. But I felt anxious all the time. I was described as anxious by family and teachers, and I grew up thinking I was the problem. I needed to be less anxious somehow. But I had no idea how. I just thought I needed to try harder.
It wasn’t until I was well into my 30s that a counsellor told me, “You aren’t an anxious person; something is making you anxious.” That really clicked for me. It somehow externalised the issue, stopped the self-blame and negative self-talk, and started something in me that wanted to look into why.
My learning journey
Learning at school was tough. My friends from school days will probably read this and think, “What?”, thinking I had it all together and was doing OK with my learning. In fact, I passed all my GCSEs, got two A-levels and went to university.
But if you look at how that all happened, you’ll begin to see a picture, reinforcing that well-known saying, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
I had two parents who were teachers. I was being coached in the background. The hours my dad spent with me learning my spellings, only for the teacher to test them out of order, for me to get them wrong, and then have to stand on my chair. I was almost sick before spelling tests.
I hated reading and reading aloud in class, which had me literally shaking.
When it was my turn to ask a question in class, I would have to repeat it over and over in my head so I wouldn’t forget, and even then, I would still misunderstand it.
I developed the most creative masking and avoidance skills.
Making lists
Even as young as seven years old, I can remember making lists. These weren’t just any old lists; they were intricate, step-by-step plans of the day and all the things I needed to do. I now know that was more to do with my working memory than anything else. I still make lists; I forget to look at them a lot of the time, but they reduce my anxiety.
And I learnt to disappear in the classroom. I kept my head down, did my homework and tried my hardest to stay under the radar.
GCSEs I did OK in, a combination of working really hard, help at home, and having a great English and maths teacher. Funnily enough, other kids didn’t like their style, but they described things in a way that just made sense to me.
For A-levels, I took Biology, PE and Art. Nothing required a lot of essay writing. And I still failed one of them.
I then completed a degree in Occupational Therapy, where a big chunk of the marks came from practical placements.
Learning to play to my strengths
I’d adapted and played to my strengths in order to get through an education system that didn’t see me, without even knowing that was what I was doing.
The academic challenges were only part of the story; carrying the belief that I wasn’t quite good enough was the part that stayed with me.
But the cost? That was something different.
Anxiety. Self-doubt. Low self-confidence. A fear of putting myself out there. Looking back, I feel I missed opportunities.
That all sounds deep and depressing and, given the choice, would I like to have known I was dyslexic when I was younger?
Yes, I would.
Do I think it would have made a difference?
Yes, I do.
However, I know now.
Dyslexia diagnosis: Knowledge, confidence and strength
I am more confident than I have ever been. Sure, the anxiety still creeps in, but I would never have believed you if you’d told me that one day I would have my own podcast and be speaking on stages.
My diagnosis brought me knowledge, and with that knowledge came strengths, confidence and realisation. It didn’t make me feel less or create a label for me that was somehow negative.
It gave me a better understanding of who I am, why I find some things difficult, why I am great at other things, and then gave me permission to lean wholeheartedly into my strengths.
Work became easier. Life became easier.
Because if we don’t have a name for our needs, we either create one for ourselves or others do it for us, and nine times out of ten, those labels aren’t positive.
For years, my label was “anxious”.
The reality was that I was a dyslexic child trying to navigate a world that didn’t yet understand me, and more importantly, I didn’t understand myself.
Liz Evans is an award-winning, dyslexic occupational therapist, speaker and podcast host behind The Untypical OT. Her work centres around burnout protection through a neuroaffirming, trauma-aware and sensory-responsive lens, supporting parents, professionals, solopreneurs and event organisers to find more sustainable ways of living and working.
Both professionally and through lived experience as a mum in an additional needs family, she’s seen how burnout often grows when people are constantly adapting to environments that weren’t designed with them in mind. Occupational therapy helps us understand what’s really driving exhaustion and overwhelm, and make practical changes that support real rest, recovery and ease, not just more coping.
You can find out more about Liz from her website or follow her on Instagram, or on LinkedIn.
FAQs about Dyslexia: The cost of not knowing
Yes, though it’s often the other way around: anxiety is frequently a symptom of undiagnosed dyslexia, not a separate condition. When a child is working harder than their peers just to keep up, without understanding why, anxiety is a very natural response. Many dyslexic children are labelled “anxious” for years before the real cause is identified.
Children with undiagnosed dyslexia often appear to be coping – they may pass tests, complete homework and stay quiet in class. Behind the scenes, they’re frequently relying on extra support at home, avoiding tasks that expose their difficulties, and developing clever workarounds. Masking can make dyslexia very easy to miss, especially in children who are conscientious and eager to please.
For many people, yes. Significantly. Having a name for the way your brain works can replace unhelpful self-labelling (“I’m not clever enough”, “I’m too anxious”) with genuine self-understanding. A diagnosis doesn’t create a negative label; for most people, it removes one and opens the door to playing to strengths rather than constantly compensating for difficulties.
Signs can include difficulty with spelling (especially under test conditions), struggling to read aloud, losing track of questions or instructions, poor working memory, and high anxiety around literacy-based tasks. Because many dyslexic children develop strong masking strategies early on, the emotional signs, like school-related anxiety or low self-confidence, are sometimes more visible than the academic ones.
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