As a toddler, my daughter Madison loved books. She would sit in her rocking chair and “read” to her dolls, to our dog, or even just to herself—telling elaborate stories based on the pictures. I thought for sure she would become an avid reader. She loved storytelling and seemed captivated by every book she picked up. But as she started learning her letters and sight words, things began to shift. Madison stopped picking up books. She no longer wanted to read, and I couldn’t understand why.
In Kindergarten, she’d bring books home and ask us to read them first. Then, she would “read” them back to us—but I quickly realized she was memorizing the stories, not decoding the words. If I pointed to a word out of context, she couldn’t recognize it. We practiced sight words; she’d seem to get them one day, only to forget them the next. She knew the sounds that letters made but couldn’t blend them to read even simple words. When asked to spell, she’d write what she heard—but unlike most children, this didn’t fade with time. Her challenges persisted.
This wasn’t something I understood well. I knew ADHD—I had personal experience with it, however reading had been my childhood escape. I devoured books, reading under the covers until my eyes burned. Reading was never hard for me. But Madison’s experience mirrored that of my husband and his brother, both of whom had struggled with reading and writing.
When Madison had her psychoeducational assessment, she was diagnosed with ADHD-C and identified as being in the very low average range for reading and writing—second percentile. Still, there was no diagnosis related to her reading and writing struggles. The psychologist attributed her difficulties to inattentiveness from ADHD and pandemic-related disruptions in schooling. But I knew this wasn’t the case. Madison could focus deeply on art and storytelling. We read together every night, had a home full of books, and practiced regularly. And while my older son also had ADHD, he had no issues learning to read. Madison’s challenges didn’t fit the explanation we were given.
After treating her ADHD, nothing changed with reading. She continued to mask at school, and her teachers didn’t raise concerns. Finally, in Grade 3, after I advocated for Madison to be reassessed, she was diagnosed with a learning disability in reading and writing.
But no one said the word dyslexia.
In Ontario, psychologists and schools often avoid using the term dyslexia in assessments because it’s not a diagnostic label recognized in the DSM-5. Instead, terms like “Specific Learning Disorder with impairment in reading” are used—broad, clinical phrases that don’t provide families with clarity or direction. Schools have historically followed this language, avoiding specific subtypes like dyslexia. This practice has left many families—like ours—confused and unsupported.
Advocates across Ontario are now pushing for change. They’re calling for early screening, evidence-based instruction, teacher training, and consistent use of the word dyslexia. Backed by the Ontario Human Rights Commission’s Right to Read inquiry, they want a system that not only identifies dyslexia early but also responds to it with timely, effective support. Because without using the word, many parents don’t know where to begin—and more importantly, children don’t understand why they’re struggling.
In my parenting and in my professional life, I use the word dyslexia. Naming it matters. It helps guide the right supports and, just as importantly, it helps highlight the strengths that come with dyslexic thinking—skills like pattern recognition, storytelling, logical reasoning, creative problem-solving, and strong visual-spatial awareness. In fact, workplaces like NASA are now actively recruiting dyslexic thinkers for their unique abilities. But if we don’t name it, parents can’t recognize these strengths in their kids. Instead, they’re left worrying about their child’s future, wondering if their disability will leave them with limited choices for their futures.
Today, Madison works with an incredible dyslexic tutor who has training in Orton Gillingham and Barton systems that are proven approaches to support dyslexic readers. This experience and learning has helped her build confidence and skills in reading and writing. When I ask Madison about those early years, she tells me that in Grade 1 and 2, she felt “dumb.” That was the heartbreaking part—watching my bright, creative child’s self-esteem slowly erode while educators insisted she was doing “just fine” and that kids all learn to read at different paces. I was shamed for asking questions—asked if we read at home, or if she had access to enough books. I can’t help but think of the many families who don’t have a background in neurodiversity or education, and how easily they’re dismissed when they bravely raise concerns.
Madison now knows she’s dyslexic. She understands her challenges and, more importantly, her strengths. That clarity and confidence wouldn’t have been possible without the right label—and without the work we’ve done to help her own her story. Using the word dyslexia helped our family find the right tools, the right people, and the right perspective. Every child deserves that same chance.
Melissa Fellin MSW, RSW, MA, PhD, CPT 