Iowa, Dyslexia, and the Sleeping Dragon

There’s a quiet truth in Iowa education—one that’s been there for a long time, shifting just beneath the surface:

Dyslexia was always here.
We just weren’t allowed to say its name.

Fifteen years ago, when I was hired as a reading specialist in a rural Title I school, I walked into a system that was trying to help kids… but lacked the language to do so.

We had students who struggled—bright, capable, trying so hard—and we were explicitly told:

We could not say “dyslexia.”
Not to parents.
Not in meetings.
Not even as a possibility.

We could describe symptoms.
We could hint.
We could work around it.

But we could not name it.

And when you can’t name something, you can’t fight it.

The Early Signs We’re Trained to Miss

Years later, this stopped being theoretical.

It became personal.

My daughter, as a toddler, showed signs that something wasn’t lining up in the way we expect early literacy to develop.  She couldn’t consistently pair sounds with letters.  She struggled to name letters.

And yet…

At three years old, she could spell every name in our family from memory.

That’s dyslexia.

It doesn’t look like a lack of intelligence.
It looks like confusion wrapped in brilliance.

I knew enough to feel that pull—that something wasn’t quite right.
But like so many parents, I didn’t yet have a system that would step in and say:

Let’s figure this out early.

Second Grade and the “Oops”

By second grade, we hit the moment that too many families know all too well.

She had been taught to read using approaches rooted in balanced literacy—strategies connected to the Whole Language approach and later examined in Sold a Story.

The three-cueing system.
Guessing from pictures.
Predicting instead of decoding.

And then came the quiet realization:

She couldn’t read.

Not fluently.
Not accurately.
Not in a way that made sense.

And maybe the hardest part?

No one could tell me why.

Privilege, Advocacy, and a First

Here’s the part that stays with me:

I had the knowledge to recognize the signs.
I had the resources to pursue testing.
I had the confidence to push when things didn’t feel right.

So I did.

I had her privately evaluated.

And when we sat down at the table with the school, something became very clear:

There was no roadmap.

So I wrote her 504 plan.

Myself.

Not as a suggestion.
Not as a collaborative draft.

As a necessity.

It was the first dyslexia-based 504 in that district.

Let that settle for a moment.

The Sleeping Dragon

For years, dyslexia in Iowa felt like a sleeping dragon.

Everyone knew it was there.
No one wanted to wake it.

Because naming dyslexia means:

• Acknowledging gaps in instruction

• Rethinking long-standing practices

• Investing in training and expertise

• Changing how we identify and support students

That’s big work.

System-level work.

So instead, we softened the language:

• “Struggling reader”

• “Needs more time.”

• “Low group”

But they don’t always catch up.

Not without the right instruction.
Not without someone who knows what they’re looking at.

When It Happens Twice

Then came my son.

This time, I knew.

The signs were no longer subtle—they were familiar.

He was later identified with:

• Dyslexia

• Speech and language needs

• Dysgraphia

And once again, I found myself navigating a system that didn’t quite know how to respond.

Testing.
Advocacy.
Planning.

Much of it was done on my own.

No clear AEA pathway.
No automatic support structure.
No streamlined process.

Just a parent—who happened to be a trained specialist—figuring it out in real time.

And I think about this constantly:

What happens to families who don’t have that background?

The Cost of Not Knowing

When dyslexia goes unidentified or unsupported, the cost is not just academic.

It’s emotional.

It looks like:

• A child who starts to believe they’re not smart

• A student who avoids reading at all costs

• A teenager who disengages completely

• A family that feels confused, dismissed, or blamed

And it happens quietly.

Because without a name, there’s no explanation.
And without explanation, there’s often shame.

The Dragon Is Waking Up

But something is shifting in Iowa.

Slowly.
Unevenly.
But undeniably.

We’re seeing:

• Conversations grounded in the Science of Reading

• Increased awareness of structured literacy

• Parents asking sharper, more informed questions

• Teachers are actively seeking better tools and training

The dragon is waking up.

And that’s not something to fear.

It’s something to meet.

What Iowa Schools Need Now

If Iowa is serious about literacy—and I believe we are—then we have to take the next step.

We need dyslexia experts in our buildings.

Not just consultants who come and go.
Not just one-day professional development.
Not just programs handed to teachers without support.

We need people who:

• Understand how the brain learns to read

• Can recognize early signs of dyslexia

• Know how to deliver structured, explicit instruction

• Support teachers in real time, with real students

• Sit at the table during MTSS, 504, and IEP meetings and say:
  “Here’s what this child needs—and here’s how we do it.”

Because right now, too many schools are doing their best without the right tools.

And that’s not a failure of teachers.

That’s a gap in support.

This Isn’t Just About “Those Kids.”

When we get it right for students with dyslexia…
We get it better for all students.

Structured literacy—phonemic awareness, phonics, fluency, vocabulary, writing—benefits everyone.

It:

• Strengthens foundational skills across classrooms

• Builds clarity and consistency in instruction

• Reduces guesswork for both students and teachers

• Creates confident, capable readers

The same instruction that unlocks reading for a dyslexic student
It is the instruction that helps every student succeed.

This isn’t a niche issue.

It’s good teaching.

Bridging the Gap

There is still a gap in Iowa.

Between:

• Identification and action

• Data and instruction

• Knowing and doing

And that gap is where students fall through the cracks.

It is my deepest professional hope—and personal mission—to help bridge that space.

To work with schools.
Alongside teachers.
In partnership with families.

Not to criticize.
Not to overwhelm.
But to bring clarity where there is confusion.

To bring structure where there is uncertainty.

To help schools do what they are already trying to do—
just with better tools, better understanding, and better outcomes.

A Simple Truth

Schools don’t need more programs.

They need people who know what to do with them.

They need expertise that lives inside the building—
steady, accessible, and grounded in what actually works.

Because the dragon isn’t just waking up anymore.

It’s here.

And the moment we stop avoiding it—
the moment we name it, understand it, and respond to it—

This is the moment everything starts to change.

For teachers.
For schools.
For families.

And most importantly—

For kids who are finally given a real chance to learn how to read.