The Lessons We Don’t Teach

I’m not saying every teacher is like what I’m about to discuss, and this is not meant to point fingers or bring shame. There are so many good teachers out there — loving, patient, and kind — and I’ve had many of them in my life who made a lasting difference. But there are also times when things happen inside the school system that leave a mark on a child that never fully fades.

I’ll be touching on a part of my story — something that happened to me during my kindergarten year. I was mistreated by my teacher, and though I won’t go into the full details here (you can read more about it in my book When the Letters Danced), I will say this: it changed something inside me.

It was the first time I learned that even the people who are supposed to protect, teach, and nurture you can sometimes be the ones who break you down the most.

And that’s why I need to talk about this.
Because trauma at a young age, especially for a child with a learning disability, doesn’t just hurt in that moment — it builds walls inside their little heart and mind that can last for years.

The way a child is spoken to… the way they’re looked at when they make a mistake… the way they’re made to feel when they don’t understand something right away — those moments become stepping stones in their life.
And depending on how that child is treated, those stones can either lead them to courage or crush them under the weight of shame.

Teachers and parents hold more power than they realize.
Their words become the voice a child will carry inside them for years.
Their actions become the example of how that child will see themselves.

And when you’re a child already struggling to learn — when your world moves differently, when your brain dances with letters and sounds — those words, those actions, they matter even more.

So that’s where I want to begin this part of my story.
Because before I ever learned how to read, I learned what it felt like to be afraid to try.
And that fear — that wound — would follow me for years.

When I started school, I thought maybe this time the world would slow down enough for me.
I wanted to learn so bad.
I wanted my mom and dad to be proud of me.
But the moment I walked into that classroom, my heart sank a little.
Everything looked still for everyone else… but for me, nothing ever sat still.

When the teacher wrote on the chalkboard, the letters seemed alive — they moved, twisted, overlapped, and I’d blink and they’d move again.
Everyone else saw words.
I saw motion.
I saw letters that didn’t want to stay in one place, and when they were on paper, they did the same thing.

I tried so hard to hold them still with my eyes, but the harder I tried, the more they moved.
My head would start to hurt, my stomach would twist, and I’d start to feel dizzy.
Sometimes it felt like the whole page was spinning — like the letters had wings or like water made of words swirling down a drain, round and round until they disappeared into thin air.
And I’d just sit there pretending I could read, praying no one would notice that I couldn’t.

My kindergarten teacher wasn’t nice to me.
She treated me unkind, thought I was lazy, and never saw that I was struggling.
She was impatient with me — every sigh, every sharp tone made me shrink smaller inside myself.
When she looked at me, it wasn’t with care or understanding. It was with disappointment.
And that hurt in a way I didn’t have words for yet.

I wanted to do good. I wanted to please her. But no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
I started to believe what her face and voice told me — that maybe I really was slow, maybe I really was dumb, maybe I really was the problem.

There were times I didn’t deserve the spankings I got, and I didn’t even understand why I was getting them.
And the worst of all — the times I was denied the bathroom and made to sit in my own pee in my chair as punishment.
All because I was “too hard to teach,” because I “took too much time,” because I “annoyed her.”
I still remember the burn of shame, the sting of tears I tried to hide, the way my little heart broke — not from the punishment itself, but from the feeling that I wasn’t worth patience or kindness.

That kind of hurt doesn’t just go away.
It plants itself deep inside you.
It changes the way you see yourself.
And at that age, I didn’t have the words to say, “I’m trying, I really am.”

I hid the mistakes.
I hid the confusion.
I hid the pain of being made to feel less.

And every time I failed, I felt like a little more of me disappeared.

So I kept trying.
I kept pushing.
Because deep down, even when I didn’t have the words, I had the heart.
And I just wanted to make my mom & dad  proud.
And I still do.

*Trauma in Children with Learning Disabilities

I don’t think people talk enough about how deep trauma runs in a child with a learning disability.
So many times, what looks like “acting out,” “daydreaming,” or “shutting down” is really a child trying to survive something bigger than anyone realizes.

When a child’s brain already struggles to process letters, sounds, or directions — imagine what happens when they’re also trying to process pain, fear, or shame.
Those two worlds collide.
And that’s when trauma takes root.

As someone who lived it, I can tell you — it’s not just emotional. It’s physical.
Your body remembers. Your heart remembers.
Even at four or five years old, I could feel the tension sitting inside me.
When I was scared, my brain shut down.
When I was yelled at or embarrassed, my eyes stopped focusing, my hands went cold, and my mind drifted away — almost like I left the room, even though I was still sitting there.

That’s what trauma does.
It teaches the brain to protect itself — to escape before the hurt lands.
And when that happens over and over, especially in school, a child begins to believe they’re not good enough, not smart enough, not worth trying anymore.

A child with a learning disability already fights battles no one can see.
Now imagine that same child walking into a classroom where they don’t feel seen, understood, or safe.
That’s not just a hard day — that’s trauma layering itself deeper and deeper into their self-worth.

And here’s the hard truth: some of that trauma happens inside the very systems meant to help them.
Not always on purpose.
Sometimes it’s through a harsh tone, a look of frustration, or a moment of impatience that says, “You should know this by now.”
Those words might be forgotten by the adult, but they live forever in the heart of that child.

But the good news is — trauma can heal.
It starts with awareness, love, and patience.
A teacher who looks a child in the eyes and says,

“You’re not broken. You just learn differently.”
can change everything.

A parent who listens instead of punishes, who hugs instead of scolds, who says,

“I believe you. I see you.”
can rebuild a child’s faith in themselves.

Children with learning disabilities don’t just need tutors or programs — they need connection.
They need gentle voices.
They need safe people who remind them they are still good, still capable, still loved.

Because the truth is, trauma and dyslexia might have both shaped me, but they didn’t destroy me.
God didn’t let them.
He took every broken piece, every wound, every word that hurt — and turned it into something that could help others.

*A Note to Parents and Teachers

From my heart to yours — please, slow down and see the child behind the struggle.
Every fidget, every mistake, every blank stare isn’t defiance… it’s a cry for help, for patience, for understanding.

Your voice becomes their inner voice.
The words you speak over them — even the smallest ones — can either lift them or leave scars they’ll carry long after they’ve grown.

A child who learns differently already fights battles you can’t see — every single day.
They are not lazy.
They are not dumb.
They are wired differently, and that difference can be beautiful when met with compassion instead of comparison.

If you’re a parent, I want you to know — your fight for your child matters more than you realize. Don’t give up on them. Keep showing up, even on the days it feels like no one else sees what you see.

If you’re a teacher, I want to thank you — the ones who take time to notice, who listen, who care, who teach with their heart before their lesson plan. You are changing lives in ways you may never fully know.

What you say… what you do… the way you respond to a struggling child — it matters.
You are laying down stepping stones that can change the path of their entire future.

 Until next time,
Yours truly,
A little girl who never stopped dancing through the words —
Brandy Lawhon