Dear Friend,
I want to tell you a story. One of those quiet, formative ones. The kind you don’t realize shaped you until you’re staring down the barrel of another hard day, wondering why your chest feels like it’s bracing for impact.
When I started kindergarten, I was afraid to say “Here” during roll call. Not because I didn’t know the word. But because saying it meant every single head would turn toward me. That much attention felt like standing in the center of a firing squad armed with stares.
The teacher spoke too quickly, like she was late for something I wasn’t invited to. The other kids would jump into the activity like they'd been briefed ahead of time. I’d just stand there, on the edge of the busy, hoping I could reverse engineer the instructions by watching everyone else. They all seemed like they knew exactly what to do - but I felt clueless.
At recess, I clung to the wall by the door. It felt safer. The playground was a jungle of elbows and loud voices. On the rare occasion I tried to join in, I was either cut in line or told to move because someone else wanted my spot. So I stopped trying.
I was slow to respond to questions. If I responded at all. I didn’t talk much, even to the teacher. I just... didn’t feel like the world wanted my voice, like it would only get me in trouble. Eventually, my teacher pulled my mom aside and said——maybe I should be tested to see if I was “retarded.” This was 1975, I was 5 years old. Only small dinosaurs lived back then, and if they did come out, it was mostly at night.
There were bright spots, sure. Moments of kindness or curiosity. But mostly, I remember feeling like a clenched fist. Anxious. Always waiting for the next correction that would either sting, humiliate, or remind me I was “too much” or “not enough,” depending on the mood of the room.
You know the ones—those oh so nurturing classics like:
“What are you, stupid?”
“This is common sense.”
“You’re old enough to know better.”
I wanted so badly to be seen. To feel safe. Included. Confident.
But all I knew how to be was small.
And yet... look at us now, buddy.
LOOK. AT. US. NOW.
We grew into people who say “Here” with our whole chest.
We learned how to see ourselves—on the days no one else did—and built lives that make room for people like us.
The kid who once hid by the door now opens doors.
This kid grew into a happy adult, a husband and a father, an author and presenter. Once the shell is broken open, you’ll be amazed at what can come out of it.
I don’t know exactly what you needed to hear today, but maybe this is it: You’ve come so much further than you realize. And you’re still going.
Thanks for being you,
Brian
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ugh that teacher... I know it was 1975, but still.
When I was in first grade a girl in my class asked, with no sense of why it would be hurtful, "Excuse me, but are you mentally retarded?" I remember being shocked at the question.
Like you I was shy and introverted.
Love your letter to your younger self though. You definitely overcame those early assumptions and labels.