Each October, during Learning Disabilities Awareness Month, I find myself reflecting on the story we tell about learning disabilities. Increasingly, I hear the narrative of one’s learning disability as their “superpower.” I understand why it has taken hold: it offers pride, identity, and an antidote to stigma. But it has never been my story.
Growing up, I lived with multiple, severe learning disabilities. I was fortunate in one crucial way: I was surrounded by parents who loved me unconditionally. They reminded me, daily, that my worth was not tied to my struggles. They believed in me, even when I did not believe in myself.
But love, as profound and steady as it was, could not erase the pain.
The reality of my childhood was one of deep shame and relentless struggle. I failed at things other children seemed to do effortlessly. I remember the exhaustion of trying to hide what I couldn’t do, the fear of being exposed, and the humiliation of falling short again and again. The effort it took to navigate a world not built for my brain often left me feeling hopeless.
Sometimes I wonder what my life might have been like if I were in school today, in a time when there is far more advocacy, awareness, and accommodation available. Perhaps people would have tried to comfort me by pointing to those few celebrated individuals who are seen as thriving in spite of, or even because of, their learning disabilities.
And yet, deep down, I know there’s little point in imagining it differently. Because despite all the progress in advocacy, what strikes me most is how little has truly changed. The children I meet today have stories that echo my own. The stories they share with me are not of triumphs and successes, but the quieter, often hidden experiences of shame, frustration, and a deep questioning of self-worth. Their experiences are far closer to what I lived than to the narratives of famous entrepreneurs or artists who are held up as proof that a learning disability can be a gift.
Of course, there are individuals like Richard Branson or Tom Cruise who describe their diagnoses as gifts in disguise. But these stories are exceptions, not the rule. Most who live with learning disabilities do not have safety nets of privilege, opportunity, or circumstance that made it possible to flourish in their chosen fields. For most, the pain and limitation of a learning disability far outweigh any compensatory “gift.”
That was certainly true for me. I never once experienced my learning disabilities as a superpower.
And yet, there was always a spark of hope in me—a belief that the human brain held more potential than we realized. That hope, coupled with my own relentless determination, led me down the path of exploring neuroplasticity and developing what would become the Arrowsmith Program.
Here is what I want people to know: we do not have to glorify suffering to find meaning in it. We do not have to tolerate the frustration, pain, and barriers that come with learning disabilities as though they are permanent. Science shows us that we can understand learning disabilities for what they are—challenges in specific cognitive functions—and we can do something about them.
Through targeted, science-informed programs, those underlying cognitive functions can be strengthened. The brain can change. Struggles once thought to be lifelong can be lessened and even eliminated.
This Learning Disabilities Awareness Month, I hope we hold space for all stories: the stories of resilience, the stories of pain, the stories of possibility. For me, the most important truth is this: no child, no adult, should have to endure a lifetime of struggle in order to discover their worth. We have the tools to change trajectories. And that, to me, is the most hopeful story we can tell.