Reily is 7 years old, and she's brought home a reader from school. It's almost a miracle that this book came home at all, considering that all the previous books the teacher sent home went "missing." After much coaxing, she sits beside her mum on the couch, pointing to every word, sounding out each letter, and making error after error. It's her second year at school, and she still can’t read "Get to the Vet."
Jaxon is 12 years old, and he is both cunning and social, making him a popular friend among his peers. When his Year 8 teacher hands out the papers, Jaxon nudges his buddy to allow him to copy the answers. His handwriting is nearly illegible, so it's likely the teacher won't look too close. Jaxon has had many different teachers and has been in and out of "special reading groups.” The last thing he wants is to draw attention to the fact that he reads slowly and can barely write. He manages okay on the computer, and if the teacher doesn't notice his struggles, he hopes to avoid being singled out.
Both Riley and Jaxon have parents who often wonder if their kids might be dyslexic. Over time, Jaxon and Riley have developed their own narratives, often convincing themselves that they're just not smart enough. After all, year after year, everyone else in their class seems to pick up reading and spelling with ease. The only explanation they can come up with is that the issue must be with them.
Parents often sense when something is not quite right; perhaps they have other children who have easily learned to read, or maybe they have a friend who went through the diagnosis process and discovered that their child has dyslexia. The label itself brings clarity and understanding. There are many famous and successful people with dyslexia, making it feel more acceptable, palatable, and a little less isolating.
I was sixteen when someone first told me I was dyslexic, and it was a watershed moment for me. I knew that I had an Individual Education Plan (IEP) and that I was "disabled," but until that moment, I had thought that also meant I was dumb. It took a compassionate school psychologist to explain to me that I wasn't actually "dumb" but that I learned differently, and that difference was called dyslexia.
Here's the thing: I was never diagnosed with dyslexia. Instead, I was diagnosed with a Specific Learning Disability (SLD) in reading, and the term "dyslexia" was not allowed in public schools and the compassionate psychologist took a considerable risk by using "the D word" back in 1997.
I will be forever thankful that she did because it changed the course of my life, and it allowed me to identify, name, and face the difficulties. It took many years, but being "dyslexic" became a positive part of my identity in a way that being "disabled" could never have.
The diagnosis of dyslexia is still controversial; scientists and experts cannot agree on a definition, much less a diagnostic criteria. While the treatment of dyslexia has certain hallmarks, it can vary depending on details, duration, and dosage.
So, where does that leave Riley and Jaxon's parents, who have watched their children struggle year after year and may wish to explore a diagnosis of dyslexia?
As an assessor with the Learning Disabilities Association of New Zealand (LDANZ), I grapple with this challenging question. There are established diagnostic criteria for Specific Learning Disabilities in Reading, Writing, and Maths, but no similar criteria for Dyslexia, Dysgraphia, and Dyscalculia. These labels are intended more for families and individuals seeking to understand rather than for assessors and practitioners.
So, is there a difference between a Specific Learning Disability (SLD) in reading and dyslexia?
The answer to that question is yes. Specific Learning Disabilities (SLD) have defined diagnostic criteria, while dyslexia does not. This does not mean that a person with SLD does not have dyslexia; it simply indicates that experts do not agree on an observable definition of dyslexia. As a result, assessors may choose to use the term "dyslexia" for reasons of clarity or compassion, or they may opt not to use it at all. Additionally, families and individuals may choose to adopt these terms in their quest for understanding.
Ultimately, it is the individual's unique pattern of strengths and weaknesses that guides recommendations and treatment, not the label assigned to them.
Labelling learning challenges as dyslexia often relates more to identity than to scientific accuracy. Identity is important; it shapes a person’s beliefs and actions. I may have been diagnosed with a “specific learning disability,” but the term "dyslexia" helped me normalise and overcome my challenges. In fact, it arguably made a greater impact on my life than the diagnosis itself.
Words hold power. By using the term "dyslexia," we create clarity and foster a community that goes beyond just a cognitive assessment. While the debate about diagnosis continues, I encourage both practitioners and individuals to be courageous. Let’s empower people to embrace their learning differences and neurodiversity in ways that feel authentic to them.
