Language Matters in Literacy Advocacy

The words on the above image reflect the lived experience of many individuals with dyslexia, particularly when they are expected to mask their struggles or perform publicly without support: humiliation, shame, depression, anxiety, panic, loss, a jijacked nervous system, and death by 1000 cuts (the impact of chronic severe stress). The injury is real. The toll is deep. The struggle life long. And precision in our language matters.

Reclaiming Precision in Advocacy

In recent years, the term trauma has become increasingly common in literacy discourse. Some have described reading aloud in class as a traumatic experience for people with dyslexia. I have noticed even a few psychologists have gotten on board with this language. While the pain and dread are real, I propose we reserve the term trauma for events that are life-threatening or perceived as life-threatening.

This position may be unpopular in some literacy circles. However, when we label non-lethal non-violent experiences with that sort of gravity as trauma, we risk diluting the meaning of traumatic events such as gun violence, assault, and combat. Posttraumatic stress syndrome results from exposure to perceived life-threatening events or exposure to death. These events can have lasting adverse effects on functioning and well-being. Misusing this term can undermine the credibility of our advocacy and make it easier to dismiss.

Speaking from Lived and Professional Experience

I offer this perspective as someone with multiple vantage points: I am dyslexic. I have experienced trauma. I specialize in treating anxiety, panic, trauma, and many other mental health conditions. I have effectively supported the emotional needs of children with dyslexia for many years. I recognize that some individuals with dyslexia have experienced both trauma and chronic stress. These realities often coexist. I have lived it, treated it, and witnessed it in others.

Can We Name What Is Happening with Compassion?

Chronic, severe stress and the cumulative toll—what some call “death by a thousand cuts” is very real for people with dyslexia. The dyslexic experience is not trivial. Research shows that individuals with dyslexia often experience heightened emotional reactivity, anxiety, and physiological stress responses (Alexander-Passe, 2006; Carroll & Iles, 2006). Chronic stress can impair working memory, increase social anxiety, and exacerbate reading difficulties. In some cases, the physiological response may mirror trauma—but that does not mean the experience meets the clinical threshold for traumatic exposure.

That all said, I came across an article by Brock and Fernette Eide that described the impact of experiencing a disconnect between one’s cognitive capacity and actual school performance as a form of psychic trauma. Though I am not happy about the use of the word trauma for reading, for example, the phrase psychic trauma resonates better.

For me, this term could serve as a compromise—especially if the literacy world cannot let go of the word trauma. It acknowledges the profound emotional and existential injury that occurs when a child knows they are capable, yet repeatedly fails to meet expectations in environments that misread, mislabel, or neglect their true needs.

Eide and Eide said, “The psychic trauma that can result from this gap between aptitude and output is impossible to exaggerate.”

And this is about a slow erosion of self-trust, the internalization of failure, and the dissonance between one’s inner knowing and external outcomes. And I also think it’s about the erosion of trust in the environment and people to take good care of us and to meet our needs. For twice-exceptional and dyslexic learners, this psychic injury is real.

And I understand why people are gravitating towards the word trauma from another viewpoint. That is, the extreme stress that kids experience, and frankly that adults experience, when having to read aloud, for example.

Why Language Choices Matter

The language we choose shapes how seriously we are taken—and how effectively we advocate for change. Overextending the term trauma risks undermining the credibility of our message and alienating those whose experiences meet the clinical criteria.

But also, as an adult with dyslexia, I do not appreciate when others decide that anything related to my dyslexia is inherently traumatic. Brutal at times? Absolutely. But reading aloud is not a life-threatening event for me. I am still striving to do it. Still trying. Still growing. At least in my case, I don’t want to be boxed in and told that if I go do that thing that I certainly will be traumatized. That signaling makes me smaller, and I don’t appreciate such sympathy.

Let us be both fierce and accurate.

Let us honor the pain—and protect the power of our words.

References

Alexander-Passe, N. (2006). How dyslexic teenagers cope: An investigation of self-esteem, coping and depression. Dyslexia, 12(4), 256–275. https://doi.org/10.1002/dys.318

Carroll, J. M., & Iles, J. E. (2006). An assessment of anxiety levels in dyslexic students in higher education. British Journal of Educational Psychology, 76(3), 651–662. https://doi.org/10.1348/000709905X66233

Eide, B., & Eide, F. (2005, October). Stealth dyslexia. Davidson Institute. Retrieved from https://www.davidsongifted.org/gifted-blog/stealth-dyslexia/ A

Weisaeth, L. (2014). The history of psychic trauma. In M. J. Friedman, T. M. Keane, & P. A. Resick (Eds.), Handbook of PTSD: Science and Practice (2nd ed., pp. 38–59). The Guilford Press.