Control Chaos Daily Grind

If you’ve been here for any length of time, then you already know this life isn’t quiet or predictable. It’s loud, layered, and often exhausting in ways that don’t show up neatly on a calendar. Our days are filled with school schedules, work responsibilities, therapy times, homework battles, emotional check-ins, and the constant effort of holding space for children who are trying so hard in a world that doesn’t always meet them where they are.

Living with dyslexia in our home has reshaped everything. It’s changed how I listen, how I respond, and how I measure progress. I’ve learned that success doesn’t always look like catching up. Sometimes it looks like not giving up. Sometimes it looks like sitting beside your child at the table long after the assignment should have been done, reminding them that their worth is not tied to their reading level.

Homework time still brings that familiar tension. I still have moments where I have to consciously slow myself down, soften my tone, and choose connection over correction. I’ve watched frustration spill over into tears, and I’ve watched confidence slowly rebuild in the smallest, quietest ways. Dyslexia has taught me that growth is rarely linear—and that comparison steals joy faster than struggle ever could.

Working at the dyslexia center has only deepened what I experience at home. I see parents walk in carrying guilt, fear, and unanswered questions. Many of them have spent years wondering if they missed something or did something wrong. I see relief in their faces when they realize they’re not alone—and grief when they understand how long their child has been misunderstood. Advocacy, for me, comes from standing in that space with them and saying, “You’re doing your best, and there is help.”

I am not a therapist. I don’t claim to have all the answers. What I do have is lived experience, a front-row seat to both the struggles and the breakthroughs, and a deep desire to make this journey feel less isolating for other families. Advocacy doesn’t always look bold or loud. Sometimes it looks like late-night messages, honest conversations, community booths, book drives, and showing up even when I’m tired.

This blog exists because I know how heavy this path can feel. It exists for the parents sitting at the kitchen table wondering if tonight will be easier than last night. It exists for the ones advocating at school meetings, searching for resources, and learning how to support a child whose brain works beautifully—but differently. It exists to remind you that slow progress is still progress, and that your child is capable, worthy, and not broken.

I’m still learning. I’m still advocating. I’m still figuring this out as I go. And I’m choosing to believe that sharing our story—honestly and imperfectly—can make a difference for someone else.

If you’re reading this and feel overwhelmed, please know you don’t have to navigate this alone. Reach out. Ask questions. Stop by a booth, attend an event, donate a book, or simply start a conversation. If you’re unsure where to begin or just need someone to point you in the right direction, you can contact the Illuminations Center for Dyslexia at staff@illuminationsdyslexia.com. Sometimes one email is the first step toward clarity, support, and hope.

Advocacy starts with connection, and connection starts with one brave step. We are building something together—one family, one child, one story at a time.