05/12/2025
Journal Entry: “I Was Never Dumb—Just Misunderstood”
In Tzofiyah’s Words
Being called dumb and stupid your whole life takes a toll on you—on your spirit, your sense of self, and your will to dream. Since I can remember, I’ve always learned differently. I took things in with my hands, my body, my senses—not just my eyes or ears. But growing up, that wasn’t seen as valid. It wasn’t considered. The way I learned was labeled “slow,” when in reality, it was just sacred.
In my early years of school, I had to go to a special reading class that was thirty minutes away. They’d drive me to this cold, bright-white facility that looked and felt more like a lab than a classroom. They put me in this small room with a large window—what I didn’t know then was that my grandmother and others were watching me from the other side. I was being studied like a subject, like I wasn’t a child trying to learn, but an experiment being tested.
I had to read aloud to prove my progress. I had to wear headphones and raise my hand when I heard certain sounds. I remember thinking, Why me? Why not everyone else? I could feel something was different. I didn’t want to stick out, so I did what I had to. I would push myself so hard, cry in frustration, and wear my brain out just trying to keep up—just trying to be “normal.”
One of the hardest moments was when we were learning about nouns, pronouns, and adjectives. I broke down crying to my teacher right there in front of the class. I didn’t have help at home—honestly, I don’t think they knew how to help. They were tangled up in their own survival. And by then, I already had pride. I didn’t want to be labeled slow when everyone else got to be normal.
Eventually, I was placed in Special Ed classes, and that’s when the truth began to reveal itself. My teacher there was kind, patient, and full of compassion. And it was there I learned that I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t disabled. I just needed to learn my way. And when I did? I flourished. I was making A’s. I had tools. I had strategies. And most importantly—I had confidence.
They called my mom one day and said, “Your child doesn’t belong in Special Ed. They’re just lazy.” But I wasn’t lazy. I was misunderstood. And when I returned to regular classes, I came back with my tools, my voice, and my power. And I succeeded—not because I changed who I was, but because I embraced how I was created.
But even success came with a cost. Because I had been told for so long that I was behind, I created a lifetime pattern of burnouts by trying to prove otherwise. If I made a C, I wouldn’t stop until I got Bs and As. And if I got Bs and As, I wouldn’t stop until I had a perfect report card. And if I had all A’s, I would push and punish myself to stay there—even if it meant breaking down from exhaustion or crumbling under the weight of no support.
This cycle still haunts me.
I’m back in college now, and it’s hard not to feel that pressure rising again—the inner voice whispering that I have to be the best, that I have to stay ahead, that I can’t fall behind. It’s a voice I’m learning to heal. Because I know now: I was never behind. I was never dumb. I was never broken.
I was becoming.
