Issue 29: The Boy They Thought Would Toughen Up | Simon da Roza

I had ADHD and dyslexia long before either of those words came with understanding for educators or my family.

At school, I struggled to read, write, stay organised and sit still. Everything that mattered in a classroom felt just slightly out of reach. I could see it, sense it, but never quite hold onto it. I was a latchkey kid, raised by a single mother who had her own battles. She believed, as many did at the time, that hardship built character. That if I toughened up early, I would be better for it later.

I learned instead how alone you can feel in a crowded room, how not to be noticed.

segregated & labelled

School did not respond to the difference with curiosity. It responded with fear and control. Smacks. The cane. Detentions. Writing spelling words out over and over again as punishment. Not supported. Not teaching. Just repetition and shame, as if pain might force my brain to behave.

I was segregated, belittled and labelled. Dumb. Cheeky. Sneaky. Lazy. Disorganised. Uncaring. Over time, those labels stopped feeling like opinions and began to feel like facts. I did not just feel different, I felt broken.

Alongside that belief sat a constant need to prove myself, if I was ever to be accepted, invited, liked or even loved.

never enough

I was never enough. Not in friendships. Not in relationships. Not on the football team. I was always trying to earn belonging, trying to show that I mattered, trying to be good at something, anything, that might finally change how people saw me. When you grow up believing you are fundamentally flawed, approval becomes something you chase and rejection cuts deeply.

In 1977, the same year my dad died, a teacher wrote in my report that I did not focus on details, that I had an abysmal attitude, and that I needed to apply myself. Those words lodged themselves deep and followed me.

Another teacher told me I could not write because I could not spell my name correctly.

My name is Simon da Roza.

The spacing, the capital letters, and its rhythm did not fit their rules. I was told to put a capital S at the start of my name, so I spelled it ‘Ssimon’. When that was wrong, I was forced to write my surname as ‘Daroza’, because spelling it correctly was marked incorrect. Even my name became evidence of failure. My own identity was something I could not get right.

High school was no better. I muddled through, carrying anxiety, rejection sensitivity, ADHD and dyslexia on my own. No one talked about well-being back then. No one understood nervous systems or learning differences. You were either coping or you were the problem.

For years, I believed I was broken. I worked harder, tried louder, pushed further and still felt as though I was falling short. What no one saw was how much energy it takes to survive in an environment that tells you, directly and indirectly, that who you are is wrong.

One day, I was accused of something I had not done. There was no investigation and no conversation. Just the assumption that if something went wrong, it must have been me. I was given the cane. I still remember that moment clearly, not just the pain, but the injustice of it. Standing there, punished for something untrue, simply because I fit the profile.

So, I became the angry, disengaged rebel.

Part of it was defence. Part of it was anger. Much of it was survival. If I was going to be judged anyway, I stopped trying to please the people who had already decided who I was.

Something shifted that day.

angry disengaged rebel