Issue 28: From Laughter to Applause: How I Found My Voice | Golden Navarro

Growing up with dyslexia and trauma, I found strength in storytelling and the courage to share my voice.

I often felt like an alien, misunderstood, misplaced, and speaking my own language.

Have you ever written something that made perfect sense to you, but when others read it, it looked like a secret code or a foreign language? That was me as a child, I often felt like an alien, misunderstood, misplaced, and speaking my own language. It wasn’t just in my writing; I would create entire stories in my head, worlds only I seemed to understand. But the moment I had to read out loud in class, everything changed.

The words would leap off the page, roll around on my tongue, and tumble out in ways that made sense to me but not to others. The sound of classmates snickering, followed by a teacher’s correction, “No, Golden, read it again,” cut deep. I remember thinking, But it sounded right to me. My brain was wired differently, and reading felt like magic trickery. Words appeared, disappeared, twisted, and danced like acrobats.

At first, I tried to laugh it off. But eventually, all the corrections and all the laughter chipped away at me. I felt broken, unwanted, and deeply sad. Looking back, I know this is why I have to tell my story. Because if my pain can save even one person from feeling that same isolation, then sharing is worth it. I don’t need to save the whole world. I just need to help one more person understand that dyslexia isn’t a curse.

If my pain can save even one person from feeling that same isolation, then sharing my story is worth it.

“Golden, please go with Miss Angela.”

I thought I was special. Once a week, I was pulled from class and taken to a small room with Miss Angela, where we played games. I didn’t understand that “special” didn’t mean the kind of special I wanted. In fourth grade, my teacher asked everyone to pick books from the school library. While classmates proudly carried long novels, I was quietly directed to the kindergarten section to choose from the small picture books. I thought it was a privilege, not realizing why classmates were staring and pointing. Only later did I understand the shame they saw, even when I didn’t.

Why couldn’t I read like them? Why did words like “dog” twist into “god” or “dang”? Spelling was even worse. “Of, of, oh… UV?” “What… WHAT? Don’t forget to cross the H.”

My brain scrambled letters and numbers, and no matter how hard I tried, the tests came back with Ds and Fs. For five years in a row, I was flunked, but my mom fought to keep me moving forward, going against the school’s recommendation to hold me back again. At the time, I thought it was a blessing. Now I know it was survival.

I actually loved reading. It just took me longer

Middle school wasn’t any easier. Every time reading out loud was assigned, my heart raced. I would find excuses to escape: Trips to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact, anything to dodge the humiliation. The irony? I actually loved reading. It just took me longer. Sometimes I had to read a page three times before it made sense, but I loved getting lost in stories. I loved writing even more. Poems, songs, and short stories became my escape hatch from reality.

And reality was harsh. I carried trauma with me: sexual abuse, physical abuse, and emotional neglect. Add to that a tangle of diagnoses: OCD, ADHD, DID, and my childhood was a storm. My father dismissed it all, saying I was just weak-minded, destined to fail. He told me I would never amount to anything. When you’re a child longing for love and acceptance, those words don’t just sting; they brand you. I grew up thinking I was broken, stupid, and unworthy. And that pain led me down dark roads: drinking, drugs, and self-sabotage in high school.

I grew up thinking I was broken, stupid, and unworthy..

I embraced the messy, complicated, beautiful wiring of my brain.

For a while, my father’s words seemed true. I lived as though his prediction was my destiny. But eventually, I woke up. Something in me decided: No. I am better than this. I began to reframe my struggles as strengths. Dyslexia wasn’t my weakness; it was my superpower. It made me creative with words, able to see language in a different way. ADHD gave me energy and the ability to juggle multiple things at once. OCD sharpened my attention to detail. Even DID, which I once feared, felt like a team inside me, different parts rooting for my success. For the first time, I stopped apologizing for who I was. Instead, I embraced the messy, complicated, beautiful wiring of my brain.

Though I loved writing, I was always afraid to read it out loud, terrified I’d stumble over my words. But eventually, I forced myself out of my comfort zone and joined a club called Toastmasters. That decision changed everything. Toastmasters gave me courage, strength, and a platform to share my stories. I even submitted one of my tall tales to a competition and won the first round! That feeling of standing tall, owning my words, and hearing applause instead of laughter was unforgettable. I co-founded an amazing team called The Alchemist Group. There, I discovered a community that celebrated creativity and resilience. They encouraged me to keep writing, keep speaking, and keep showing up. That’s the key: when something is hard, don’t run from it; instead, practice until it feels as natural as breathing.

When something is hard, don’t run from it; instead, practice until it feels as natural as breathing.

Today, I’m proud to say I’ve flourished not despite my differences, but because of them. I own the number-one Photo Booth business in San Joaquin County. I speak, I write, I connect with people. My dyslexia shows up in my work all the time. Just scroll through my 500 Instagram posts and you’ll find misspelled words. But I laugh about it now. My followers understand me, and sometimes they even love me more for my alien “code.” I’ve learned that success doesn’t come from fitting in. It comes from daring to stand out. And dyslexia has given me that gift.

You are not broken. You are not lazy. You are not stupid. You are wired differently, and that difference can become your superpower.

Life is still hard some days. I wake up, and the weight of it all feels heavy. But then I remind myself: we only get about a hundred years on this earth. Why waste them? I give myself a purpose each day to be the best version of me, to find joy, and to ignore the naysayers and the doubters. Yes, there will always be people waiting to laugh at my mistakes. But there are also people like my friends Ela, AJ, and Ernie, my cheerleaders, my tribe, who support me fully. That’s the real secret: surround yourself with people who lift you, who put you in the room, and who don’t leave you behind.

I wish I’d had a mentor when I was younger, someone to tell me that being different wasn’t a curse. That’s why I’m grateful to share my story here in Dystinct. Because maybe some young reader will see themself in my words and realize they’re not alone. If you’re struggling with dyslexia, or mental health, or trauma, know this: you are not broken. You are not lazy. You are not stupid. You are wired differently, and that difference can become your superpower.

Perfection is boring. Our world needs the color, creativity, and resilience that dyslexia brings. My struggles shaped me into the woman I am today: hardworking, empathetic, and full of fight. Life is not black and white for me. I live in the gray areas, and I’ve learned to love it there. So, to anyone who feels like an alien outcast: your story matters. And just by being you, you already belong.

Extracts from Dystinct Magazine