When Kids Know, They Thrive: Why Naming Disabilities Builds Confidence

July is Disability Pride Month — a time to celebrate the diversity, resilience, and everyday wins of the disability community. For me, it’s also a reminder that pride doesn’t just happen. It’s something we grow at home when we talk to our kids honestly and help them own every part of who they are. According to the CDC’s Tracking Network, about 1 in 6 children in the U.S. have a developmental disability — from speech or language impairments to autism and learning disability — yet too many kids still don’t have the words to name what makes them different.

My Daughter Knows Herself — And That Changes Everything

My daughter walks in my shoes — but her path already looks so different than mine ever did. She has dyslexia and dyscalculia. Reading, writing, and math don’t come easily for her. But unlike me at her age, she knows why.

From the beginning, I explained what her brain does and how she learns. I told her that her brain processes words and numbers differently — and that different doesn’t mean broken. It just means she needs different tools.

She knows she might need more time to read a book or write a paper. She knows that assistive technology helps her express her ideas when her pencil can’t keep up. She uses her tools openly in class. She asks friends for help without shame. She even talks about her learning differences with classmates who have learning disabilities and ADHD — they compare strategies and remind each other they’re not alone.

She knows that while reading and writing can be hard, she’s also great at seeing the big picture, making connections, and thinking outside the box. These aren’t made-up silver linings — they’re real, researched strengths that so many people with dyslexia share. I remind her of this every chance I get.

Sometimes I envy her. She owns her learning differences so openly — something I never could have imagined doing at her age. And while I know the road ahead won’t always be smooth, she has something I didn’t: she knows herself.

What Happens When Kids Don’t Have Words for It

When I watch my daughter advocate for herself, I can’t help but think back to my own childhood.

I always knew, deep down, that I learned differently. I remember sitting in speech therapy as a young kid, struggling to say the words that came so easily to everyone else. Other kids teased me for how I spoke. By elementary school, my teachers started working on my writing skills too — though no one ever called it what it was: a learning disability.

Getting my ideas on paper felt impossible. I’d stare at a blank page, my head full of thoughts I couldn’t get out. I was embarrassed for anyone to read my writing. I wanted so badly to just blend in — to learn like everyone else.

In third grade, I’d quietly slip out of the classroom for special help, hoping no one would ask where I was going. When I came back, I always felt like I’d missed something — a lesson, a joke, a moment with my friends that I could never get back.

By high school, I spent my study periods in the resource room. But nobody wanted to be seen there. Some classmates would wait outside until the last possible second so they wouldn’t be spotted going in.

In eighth grade, I finally got a name for what I was experiencing: a language-based learning disability in written expression. An outside evaluator sat me down and explained that my brain worked differently — and that it was okay. But by then, a lot of damage was done to my self-esteem and confidence that I still deal with to this day.

The silence had taught me to see my differences as a secret — something to hide if I could.

Silence Creates Shame — Not Pride

Even after college and graduate school, I still carried that silence with me. When job applications asked if I had a disability, I’d freeze. Was my disability “real enough” to check the box? Would it hurt me if I did? Should I keep it hidden?

No one ever helped me name what I was feeling — the confusion, the shame, the sense that I wasn’t really disabled, just not trying hard enough.

What I wish someone had told me then is this: when kids don’t know the truth, they don’t feel protected — they just feel different. And when they don’t have the words for it, they fill in the blanks with blame.

Why We Must Name It

That’s why I do things differently now. When we give kids language for what’s happening in their brains, we take away the shame. When we talk openly, we help them understand:

• They’re not alone.

• They’re not broken. 

• They can ask for what they need — and they deserve to get it.

When my daughter needs extra time, she knows that’s not a weakness — it’s her right. When she asks for help, she knows she’s doing exactly what she’s supposed to do. She has the confidence to advocate for herself — something that took me years to learn.

The Strengths We Overlook

It’s not enough to just name what’s hard — we also have to name what’s strong.

In my daughter's case, she has dyslexia and dyscalculia. People with dyslexia often possess powerful big-picture thinking skills. They see patterns that others miss. They often excel at creative problem-solving and have a talent for understanding people. They adapt because they’ve had to — and that adaptability becomes a gift.

I want my daughter to know her learning difference isn’t just something to overcome — it’s part of what makes her who she is.

We Can’t Control the World — But We Can Shape Home

I don’t pretend the world always makes this easy. Kids still face stigma. Schools don’t always provide what they should. Friends might not understand. And middle school — with its endless pressure to fit in — will bring its own challenges.

But what we can control is what happens at home. We can choose openness over secrecy. We can choose conversations over confusion. We can remind our kids every day that different is not less.

A Call to Parents: Start the Conversation

This Disability Pride Month, if you’re raising a child who learns differently, I’m asking you: don’t wait.

Tell your child what their diagnosis means. Explain how their brain works. Talk about the parts that are hard and the parts that are amazing. Give them tools and words to speak up for what they need.

When we do this, we don’t just prepare our kids for school — we prepare them for life. We teach them to stand tall in every room they walk into. We show them that pride starts with knowing themselves — fully and truthfully.

Pride Starts Here

We can’t erase all the stigma overnight. But we can chip away at it — one bedtime chat, one honest conversation, one moment of reminding our kids: You are enough exactly as you are.

That’s how we raise kids who carry pride, not shame.