I'm a bit dyslexic so I found learning to read hard. I muddled up

Host: The library was almost empty at this hour — its corridors humming faintly with the gentle echo of turning pages and the distant sigh of an old heating vent. The light from brass lamps pooled across the tables in golden circles, falling over towers of books that seemed to lean toward each other like weary scholars whispering secrets.

Outside, rain tapped steadily against the high windows, soft and rhythmic, as though the sky itself were reading aloud. Jack sat hunched over a stack of papers, his brow furrowed, his hand clenched around a pen that no longer wrote. Across from him, Jeeny watched quietly — her notebook open, her eyes reflecting the lamplight like calm amber glass.

Host: The world around them was one of silence and struggle — the slow, private battle between mind and meaning, where every word carried both a weight and a wound.

Jeeny: “Ben Fogle once said, ‘I’m a bit dyslexic, so I found learning to read hard. I muddled up the letters but learnt to power through.’”
She smiled gently, her voice a whisper in the hush. “I love that. Power through. There’s something profoundly human in that — not brilliance, not ease, but perseverance.”

Jack: “You call it perseverance. I call it stubbornness.” He smirked faintly, though there was no malice in it. “You know, I envy people like him. They turn their weakness into a headline. For the rest of us, it’s just a quiet embarrassment.”

Jeeny: “You mean effort?”

Jack: “I mean imperfection. We worship fluency in everything — in words, in thought, in emotion. Stumbling’s a sin now.”

Jeeny: “Then I guess the saints are the ones who still stumble and keep going.”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the window now, like a thousand soft fingertips. A single lamp flickered, throwing shadows across the shelves. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked — patient, impartial, like the rhythm of persistence itself.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about what Fogle said?” she continued. “He didn’t romanticize the struggle. He just said he muddled up the letters. I think there’s poetry in that. We all muddle up the letters, don’t we? In life, in love, in trying to make sense of the world.”

Jack: “Except most people get better at hiding it.”

Jeeny: “Or worse at admitting it.”

Jack: “Still, dyslexia’s not the same as the rest of us fumbling through meaning.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly, “it’s harder. Because the world punishes what it doesn’t have patience for. But it also proves something — that intelligence isn’t speed. It’s endurance.”

Jack: “So the race belongs to the slow?”

Jeeny: “To the stubborn.”

Host: The library’s air grew thick with the smell of old paper — a scent like patience made visible. The pages of a book rustled as a student passed by, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor.

Jack: “You ever think about how cruel learning can be?” he said after a while. “It’s supposed to be liberation, but for so many, it’s humiliation. A system that rewards only one kind of mind.”

Jeeny: “Because we mistake uniformity for fairness. We think learning is a ladder — the same steps for everyone — but it’s not. For some, it’s a cliff.”

Jack: “And the rest of us just watch them climb.”

Jeeny: “No, the rest of us should learn to hold the rope.”

Jack: “You always find a metaphor to forgive the world.”

Jeeny: “I don’t forgive it, Jack. I just refuse to stop believing we can remake it.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpane. The rain shimmered under the streetlight outside, like liquid silver streaking down glass. The sound was strangely comforting — the world reminding itself to persist.

Jeeny: “You know, when Fogle says he ‘powered through,’ it’s not just about learning to read. It’s about learning to believe in effort again. We live in an age of shortcuts — information without comprehension, applause without achievement. He’s reminding us that the hardest paths teach the deepest lessons.”

Jack: “You think struggle gives meaning.”

Jeeny: “It reveals meaning. It’s the only mirror that doesn’t lie.”

Jack: “But it breaks people too.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said, her tone tender. “But it also builds the ones who decide not to stay broken.”

Host: The clock chimed softly — a subtle, resonant sound that filled the high ceilings. A few remaining students packed their things and slipped out, leaving the two alone with their shadows and thoughts.

Jack: “I’ve always hated reading,” he confessed, his voice quieter now. “Not because of the words — because of what they remind me of. How slow I was. How others finished pages while I was still sounding out the first line.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are — still reading.”

Jack: “Habit.”

Jeeny: “No. Hunger.”

Jack: “For what?”

Jeeny: “For understanding. You wouldn’t be here if you’d given up. That’s your own kind of dyslexia, Jack — not of letters, but of faith. You twist it, doubt it, resist it. But you still keep coming back to it.”

Jack: “So struggle’s a virtue now?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a compass. It tells you what still matters enough to fight for.”

Host: The lamplight softened, bathing the room in a golden calm. The outside world felt distant now — reduced to the rhythm of rain, the heartbeat of clockwork, and the low murmur of two voices holding the world still.

Jeeny: “You know what I love most about that quote?” she said. “It’s the way he doesn’t make himself a hero. He just says he learnt to power through. That’s not grand — it’s humble. The courage of the ordinary.”

Jack: “That’s rare now. Everyone wants to win. No one wants to learn.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Learning is slow, uncomfortable, imperfect. But it’s also holy. It’s how we build the bridge between confusion and clarity.”

Jack: “And some of us get lost in the middle.”

Jeeny: “Then we keep walking. Because the bridge only becomes real when you do.”

Host: The rain eased into a light drizzle. The city beyond the glass blurred — its colors smudging into watercolor light. The silence between them was comfortable now, the kind that carries understanding rather than emptiness.

Jack: “You know, maybe dyslexia isn’t about letters at all.”

Jeeny: “No?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s about the world itself — how we’re all trying to read it, stumbling over the symbols, mixing the meanings, trying to make sense of chaos.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” she said, smiling, “we still power through.”

Host: A warmth settled over the room — not from the lamps, but from the quiet dignity of shared reflection. The rain stopped completely, and outside, the streetlights shimmered against puddles like tiny galaxies reflected in ink.

Jeeny: “You see, that’s the secret, Jack. The letters never line up perfectly for anyone. The world was written in a language no one fully understands. But we keep reading anyway. We keep trying. We keep learning.”

Jack: “Even when the words fight us.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: They gathered their books, the weight of them gentle but grounding. As they walked toward the door, the library seemed to sigh — shelves exhaling the soft breath of history, stories whispering goodnight to those who dared to read them.

Outside, the air was cool and wet, the street shimmering with reflections.

Host: And as they stepped into the night — two imperfect readers of a difficult world — the truth of Fogle’s words lingered in their silence:

That life itself is a page of tangled letters,
and wisdom is not in reading it flawlessly,
but in having the courage
to power through —
letter by letter,
mistake by mistake,
until meaning finally speaks.