Issue 27: Be D.Y.S.T.I.N.C.T My Journey with Dyslexia | Ela Jamosmos

Kindergarten graduation was approaching fast. There was only a short time left to rehearse our program. One by one, we lined up at the edge of the stage, facing rows of empty chairs, seats that would soon be filled with proud parents.

Each of us was assigned a letter of the alphabet, starting with "A" on the far left. There needed to be at least 26 of us to complete the full set. I was given the letter "M" - the 13th letter in the alphabet. Smack dab in the middle of the stage.

The plan was simple: we would sing the alphabet, each student taking a turn to sing their letter in order. The moment the letter "A" was sung, panic surged through me. I couldn't remember my letter.

Why can't I remember?

The rhythm broke. I froze. The melody stalled, and all I could hear was the pounding of my heart, loud and fast in my tiny chest. Everything else faded into a blur - the other kids, the teacher's face, even the music. I knew every eye was on me, and I stood there, swallowed by silence and shame.

I was five years old.

Words by Ela Jamosmos

In the days that followed, I became obsessed with remembering. I repeated "M, M, M, M" over and over to myself, day and night. During practice, I waited for the student to my left to sing "L," and I would blurt out "M", not musically, not cheerfully, but with a stern seriousness. My face must have looked terrified.

On graduation day, I did the same thing. One strong, flat "M." No melody, no joy, just survival. That moment marked the beginning of my awareness that school and learning would always feel different for me. The pressure made it difficult. Harder. Heavier. Not wrong… just different.

Yes, different.

I remember a time when my mom was helping my older sister memorize a song for school. They sat together, going over it again and again, while I simply watched from the side. No one asked me to learn it. There was no pressure, no expectation. I was just there… listening, enjoying, soaking it in.

After their tutorial session, I surprised them both; I had memorised the entire song. No stress. No flashcards. Just fun. That moment showed me something I wouldn't fully understand until years later: I learn differently. When learning feels like a performance, a play, or a passion, I thrive. When it feels like a test, a trap, or a ticking clock, I freeze.

I didn't lack ability. I learned with a different rhythm.

I was a fun-loving, laugh-out-loud, and sweet young girl who lived for music. By the age of eight, I was already choreographing dance routines for the neighborhood kids. The world, to me, was both a canvas and a stage. I danced through my days and sang through my nights, so much so that my mom eventually bought me my own karaoke machine just to keep up with my mini performances at the age of ten. But singing and dancing were just the beginning.