By Sandra Mann

Once upon a time, there was a little redhead who loved to read. She would lie on her pink chiffon bedspread, devouring book after book. Her fondest dream was to own a private library filled with thousands of books—a place where she could read all day while her mother brought her grilled cheese sandwiches on a silver platter for lunch.

Of course… that little girl was not me.

I hated reading when I was a child.

In elementary school, I was placed in a remedial reading class. The teachers were kind and supportive, but it quickly became obvious that I couldn’t read like the rest of my classmates. My mom worked with me for hours at home trying to help, but nothing seemed to click. It wasn’t until sixth grade—after my annual reading comprehension test—that I was finally told: it wasn’t a matter of understanding. I just read slowly.

Reading aloud was a nightmare. I always felt like I had marbles in my mouth compared to how smoothly everyone else seemed to read.

Things didn’t get better in middle or high school. Reading assignments often felt impossible to complete in time. Meanwhile, my friends—honor students—could breeze through their homework and still have time to read for fun. It didn’t feel fair. I loved learning. I wasn’t stupid. So why was this so hard for me?

Then one day, my mom told me something that shifted my entire perspective.

She said, “You read like your father.”

Now, my dad was (and still is) one of the smartest people I’ve ever known. The kind of person who could solve complex problems in his head that would stump most people—and he read like me?

She reminded me that there are people who can’t read at all, and how much that limits their opportunities. That conversation sparked a change in me.

I started to shift my focus. If I read like my brilliant dad, maybe this wasn’t a flaw—just a different way of doing things. I began to notice how lucky I really was: I had parents who cared, access to school and books, and the freedom to improve at my own pace. I started to feel a responsibility to make the most of those blessings. I couldn’t control my speed, but I could work to improve. And I did.

Today, reading is one of my favorite hobbies.

It’s on my list every time someone asks what I love to do. I’ve read aloud to my children since they were babies—and now I can do it without sounding like I’ve got a mouth full of marbles. I’m still a slower reader than most, but my son and I have a running joke about it. He’ll finish a book in a day, hand it to me, and I’ll spend the next week savoring it. I tell him, “Hey—I get to enjoy it longer!”

My new outlook hasn’t erased the challenge, but it’s given me the courage to keep going and the strength to push through. And with this love of reading, I feel like I really am inching closer to my own version of happily ever after.

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