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Savannah’s journey began in the fall of 2018, a time that feels both distant and vivid. She sailed through preschool and kindergarten, with her teachers assuring me she was thriving. As a first-time mom, I took their word, unaware of what to expect. But when Savannah started first grade at a new school, everything changed. Her new teachers revealed she was barely reading at a kindergarten level, despite glowing reports from her previous school. I was stunned, blindsided by the news that my daughter, who I’d been told was “on track,” was struggling.

Looking back, there were signs I’d missed, dismissing them as quirks of her personality or fatigue from long school days. She mixed up letters, forgot words she’d just read, and struggled to learn her ABCs. She was fidgety, easily distracted, and frustrated by the slightest noise. I’d posted about these behaviors on Facebook, asking if they were normal, and received a flood of reassurances: “She’ll grow out of it,” or “My kid was like that too.” But the daily headaches and nightmares that began plaguing Savannah told a different story.

Desperate to help, I pulled her out of school at the end of the 2018 semester to homeschool her. I had no experience, but I dove in, armed with online recommendations and hope. What followed was a cycle of frustration. No matter how many times I reviewed concepts, the next day it was as if she’d never learned them. I researched tirelessly, consulting experts who suggested dyslexia and dysgraphia, with possible ADHD due to her distractibility. She’d scream in frustration when her siblings made noise, unable to focus. I devoured books on dyslexia, filling an entire bookshelf, and spent thousands on specialized curricula. I restarted her at a kindergarten level three times, convinced we were missing something fundamental. I enlisted her dad and my mom to help, but nothing clicked.

By the time Savannah was entering fourth grade, she was still barely reading at a first-grade level. Her spelling was nonexistent, and I was terrified of her playing with younger kids who could read and write better than she could. I feared she’d feel inferior. We never took breaks, not even during summer or winter, hoping relentless effort would help her catch up. But it didn’t. She was burnt out, and so was I. Returning her to public school felt impossible—she was too far behind after three and a half years of tears, effort, and no progress. I began to believe she was lazy, guessing at words to rush through reading. She’d add letters or endings that weren’t there, and I thought she was skipping steps to avoid the work.

I turned to homeschooling groups, pleading for advice. Responses varied: “She’s young, she’ll catch up,” or “She’s not lazy, she’s just overwhelmed.” I tried a focusing card to help her read one word at a time, but nothing worked. Year after year, I waited for a breakthrough that never came. Guilt consumed me. Had I failed her by not reading to her enough as a toddler? Was I not cut out to teach her? Family members, some of whom were teachers, judged me harshly at gatherings. Their looks and comments screamed that I was a failure, that my “crazy” decision to homeschool had ruined Savannah’s future. I internalized their criticism, spiraling into self-blame. I was convinced I’d destroyed her dreams of becoming a doctor like me or an engineer like her dad. Depression crept in, and I felt utterly lost.