“I am so tired of typing messages only to read at the end and see scramble.
Then I wipe out and type again. Over and over.
Eventually I get so frustrated I give up.”
— His words

Those are his words.
Not mine — his.

If you’ve never lived with dyslexia, maybe it sounds small, even silly. Just words mixed up on a screen.
But to me, it’s heartbreak. Because I know the weight behind those lines. I’ve seen it my whole life.

I taught him to read when we were kids. I’ve always been his silent translator — the one who could untangle his meaning when the letters betrayed him.
His scars run deep, and I know them all. Life has not been kind.

A “special” school that never really saw him.
Crap jobs that didn’t honor his worth.
Years of scraping by when he deserved so much more.
He has built a life out of grit and persistence. And yet — he endures. He manages. He thrives in his own way.

He is a good man. A great human being. My best friend.
From the outside, dyslexia doesn’t look dramatic. It looks like typos, like mistakes, like “why don’t you just try harder.”
What people don’t see is the loop: type, scramble, erase, try again, give up, repeat.
They don’t see the patience it takes to keep showing up.
They don’t see the strength it takes to keep going.

I see it. I have always seen it. And I want you to see it too.
To my best friend: you are not defined by scrambled words.
You are defined by the way you keep showing up, no matter how many times the world told you “not enough.”
You are defined by kindness, by courage, by the quiet power of refusing to fold.

Your story is not just about dyslexia. It’s about resilience.
And I am proud to stand beside you in it.