“It’s Not That I Can’t Read, I Just Don’t Like It”
Dr. Helen Ross on Dyslexia, ADHD & Doing Life Differently
Helen Ross first noticed something was off when she was 17, studying for her A-levels. While pure maths came easily, all neat lines of theoretical algebra and abstract logic, something about physics threw her completely. It wasn’t the maths that tripped her up. It was the words.
She could read the exam questions, technically. But understanding them, decoding what was actually being asked, visualising the scenarios to help draw the necessary force diagrams felt impossible. “I’d sit in class properly frustrated,” she remembers, “just feeling really stupid.” That sense of ‘stuckness’ wasn’t new. It had been bubbling under the surface for years, disguised as a dislike of reading, a tendency to skim and skip, a deep disinterest in novels. “I didn’t read my books for GCSE Literature. I’ve no idea what happened in King Lear. I just couldn’t be bothered; it was a pain in the bum.” I can totally relate to what Helen felt, having the same dislike of reading.
But it wasn’t until a pivotal moment in 1999 with her mum’s support and a perceptive teacher’s nudge, that Helen was assessed and diagnosed with dyslexia. Helen describes how “A specialist poked and prodded her brain” in a small clinic in Great Malvern. The results were both affirming and illuminating: a high intellect coupled with processing and working memory challenges. The gaps were finally explained. “If you say words too fast,” Helen says now, “you’ll literally see my face go blank. I need time to process.”
She remembers small clues from childhood, like the time in Year 1 she spelled “quarry” as “CWORY.” Or in Year 5, when her class had to write a story each week, and she dreaded it with every fibre of her being. The expectation to produce a page, then a page and a half, then two, felt like a mountain. “I was clever, on the top table and all, but I hated writing. I couldn’t get the words out.”
Reading didn’t feel impossible, it just never felt enjoyable. Meanwhile, her brother devoured books. “He’s like a vacuum cleaner,” she laughs. “He reads the lot.” But for Helen, stories were better seen than read. “Why read the book when you can watch the film?” I totally agree!
Numbers were her language. Well, numbers and languages. After A-levels, Helen went on a selective engineering gap year programme, almost by accident. She assumed the charity let her in because it was based in Leamington. In fact, it was a national scheme. She spent a year in France and fell in love with language learning, something that continues today. “I’ve got two computers. I was doing my Hebrew this morning,” she says with a grin. “One of my closest friends speaks it, so I want to learn it. Languages are about pattern spotting, and I love patterns.”
For Helen, learning happens through doing. “I need to speak it,” she explains. “If I went to Israel for a month, I’d be fluent by the time I came back.” That kinaesthetic, embodied style of learning would prove to be a guiding thread in her life and a lifeline in moments of struggle.
University was a mixed experience. Helen received accommodations, extra time in exams and smaller rooms to sit them in but lectures were still hard. She spent most of them frantically scribbling notes, trying to keep up, but absorbing very little. “It was in the tutorials, doing the work hands-on, that I actually learned,” she reflects. I recall feeling exactly the same, I just literally took notes but couldn’t listen and process at the same time.
One of the more unexpected places she felt the weight of her neurodivergence was on the rugby pitch. Training drills were spoken aloud, explained quickly, and then executed. But for Helen, verbal instructions didn’t stick. “I’d have no idea what they just said. I couldn’t follow. The lads used to humour me, I’d just watch first, then step in.”
Years later, she was diagnosed with ADHD too, and suddenly the jigsaw pieces of her life clicked into place. “It made so much sense. I always worked hard, but I didn’t know if it was disproportionate hard, because I don’t live anyone else’s life.”
Crashing & Rebuilding
After university, Helen secured a job in control systems engineering. Everything looked good on paper. But within months, she was signed off work with depression. “I just sank. I couldn’t get out of bed.” Burnout, she now realises. A collapse of all the internal scaffolding she’d built to function in a world not built for her brain.
But there was a moment, a conversation with a friend in France, that changed her trajectory. “They asked me, ‘What’s your dream job?’ And I said, ‘Teaching. Travelling. Learning languages.’” She was two-thirds through her engineering degree at the time. But the spark had been lit. Back in the UK, she met with a PGCE tutor at Sheffield Hallam who offered her a place on the spot. She asked for time to think. She didn’t want to fall into teaching by default. But after a short stint in supply teaching, her heart knew: this was it. “I remember calling my mum after my first day and saying, ‘I loved it.’ It was just right.”
Making It Work — Her Way
Helen has always been open about her dyslexia with employers. “I don’t care if they like it or not,” she says. “I’m not hiding it.” Most schools have been supportive, but not all. One challenged her for delivering annotated PowerPoints, a method that helped her students, many of whom were neurodivergent themselves. Ironically, that year, her students achieved the highest value-added in the school. Still, her methods were questioned. “It was traumatic,” she admits. But she persisted. She always has.
In schools, she’s taught languages, maths, and beyond, relishing the chance to make learning accessible, joyful, and embodied.
“I Wanted to Be One of the Voices”
It was government policy that pushed her into doing a PhD. Around the time of the “Every Child Matters” agenda, she saw the widening gap between policymakers and real-life experience in schools, especially in communities like Barnsley. “They were making decisions based on data, but not listening to people. And I thought: right. I’ll get me a doctorate. I’ll speak their language.” She started at age 31. With a full-time job and a fire in her belly, she created a meticulous Gantt chart, mapping out the entire first year week by week. “I stuck to it like glue.” Structure became survival. Variety, research, teaching, policy work kept her engaged. “It was bloody hard work. But I loved it.”
If She Could Tell Her Younger Self One Thing…
“I wish I’d known I had ADHD,” she says. “I’ve spent my whole life losing things, forgetting everything that’s not written down, feeling stupid. That narrative, that I should be better, more capable, has been so damaging. If I’d known, maybe I’d have gone easier on myself.”
She shares stories of meltdowns over lost keys, feeling utterly incapable, and the endless self-criticism. “I’ve always compensated. My desk is immaculate. My to-do lists are perfect. Because if I drop a ball, I feel like the whole house of cards will fall down.”
Her Advice for Others Navigating Similar Paths?
“Get to know yourself. Truly. Even if it’s just a checklist. And if people shame you for how you process the world, they are not worth your time. You don’t need extra fuel on the fire of self-doubt. Be kind to yourself. Always. And don’t change to fit the world. Change the world to fit you.”
💭 What Truth is Awakening in you Right Now?
If Helen’s story stirred something in you, a memory, a realisation, a shift, pause and let it land. What might you reclaim if you saw your brain not as broken, but beautifully wired for something different?
Dr Helen Ross is a highly regarded Dyslexia Specialist you can find out more about her HERE . She has also recently published a book, Literacy Learning Journeys, which you can learn more about HERE.
