The Discovery That Changed Everything

Dyslexia runs in families—it's written in our genes like an invisible inheritance. My mom carried it through her childhood and into adulthood, but back then, learning differences weren't discussed or understood. There were no diagnostic tests, no special programs, just silent struggles that went unrecognized.

When she became a mother to my brother and me, she made a quiet promise to herself: if there was even the slightest possibility that we might inherit her challenges, she would ensure we received the support she never had access to.

That promise became my lifeline.

The discovery happened almost by accident. My brother was undergoing evaluation while I sat in the corner of the room, probably lost in my own world. The evaluator looked over at me and mentioned casually, "You should have her tested as well—dyslexia is hereditary."

Those words shifted the trajectory of my entire education. The test results confirmed what the teacher suspected: I was dyslexic too.

Navigating School: A Different Kind of Education

School became a balancing act between accommodation and aspiration. While my classmates were in yoga and physical education classes, I was in remedial sessions for English and Mathematics. Initially, this felt isolating—like I was being separated from the "normal" school experience before I even understood why.

But those sessions transformed into something powerful. My mother didn't just find tutors; she found advocates. Special educators who understood that learning differently didn't mean learning less, who knew how to build pathways where traditional methods had created roadblocks.

The turning point came through my mother's wisdom. She told me something that would become my guiding principle: "If you can't excel through traditional academic paths, you must explore alternative avenues." This wasn't about lowering expectations—it was about expanding possibilities.

Soon, I was immersed in Indian Classical dance and Kuchipudi. My body found expression and confidence even when my mind wrestled with letters and equations. This creative balance didn't just boost my self-esteem; it fundamentally changed how I approached learning. Gradually, even my academic performance began to improve.

Understanding Dyslexia Beyond the Classroom

Most people assume dyslexia only affects reading and writing, but it's actually a comprehensive way of processing information that influences how you interact with the world.

Consider something as simple as playing badminton. When the shuttlecock approaches, my brain sometimes scrambles directional signals. What should be an automatic response—reaching left or right—becomes a conscious calculation that often arrives too late. Dyslexia doesn't confine itself to academic subjects; it's an integral part of how my brain interprets spatial relationships, timing, and sequential information in every context.

The Numbers That Tell My Story

Class 3, English examination: 3 out of 30.

That score wasn't merely a grade—it felt like a definition of my limitations. For years, that number haunted me, seeming to validate every fear I had about my capabilities. It whispered that perhaps I really wasn't intelligent enough, that maybe words would always remain elusive.

Class 12, English examination: 95 out of 100.

For most students, this would simply be another high score. For me, it represented a revolution in self-understanding. The journey from 3 to 95 wasn't just academic improvement—it was proof that persistence creates transformation, that effort accumulates over time, and that sometimes the most meaningful victories are the ones only you fully comprehend.

This wasn't about conquering dyslexia; it was about learning to work with my brain's unique wiring while refusing to accept artificial limits on my potential.

Finding My Creative Voice

From those uncertain early years, I progressed to Lady Shri Ram College, then to Jamia Millia Islamia. I cultivated friendships with people who recognized my strengths before noticing my struggles, discovered my passion for filmmaking, and found a career that energizes rather than exhausts me.

In filmmaking, my dyslexic perspective became an asset rather than an obstacle. The same brain that processes traditional text differently often perceives visual narratives with remarkable clarity. The cognitive differences that made conventional reading challenging help me notice subtleties in human behavior and storytelling that others might overlook.

Behind the camera, I found my voice.

What This Journey Has Taught Me

My experience isn't about "overcoming" dyslexia as if it were an adversary to defeat. It's about understanding how to work with my neurological differences, building on my strengths, and finding power in the community that forms when you're authentic about your challenges.

The support system that surrounded me transformed everything. Special educators who saw potential where others identified problems, friends who celebrated my abilities, and especially a mother who refused to let society's narrow definitions constrain her daughter's possibilities—this network converted what could have been a story of limitation into one of expansion.

Visibility matters. Quality education matters. And unwavering belief in a child's potential? That matters most of all.

The Real Victory

True achievement isn't always about breaking records or leading leaderboards. Sometimes it's quieter and more personal. Sometimes it's about a student who scored 3/30 in Class 3 proving to herself that improvement and excellence are possible. Sometimes it's about discovering that the very traits that create challenges in one area can become superpowers in another.

I remain dyslexic, and I probably always will be. But I now understand something I didn't grasp in Class 3: being neurologically different isn't a flaw in my design—it's a distinctive feature. The most beautiful aspect of this realization? I get to author my own narrative, direct my own story, and demonstrate to other young people who see letters shifting on pages that their stories are just beginning.

Because ultimately, the greatest accomplishment isn't learning to conform to someone else's expectations. It's learning to celebrate the unique contours of your own potential and using your voice to tell stories that matter—including your own.

Saubhagya's story reminds us that our differences can become our greatest strengths, and that every journey toward self-acceptance is worth sharing. What stories are you ready to tell?