One of my favourite pieces of scientific equipment is something called a retrospectroscope. I admit that it only exists in my imagination, but it has turned out to be a very useful bit of kit. It allows me to look back through the years of my life and analyse the journey so far. And what a journey it has been.

When I started looking back in earnest as I wrote my memoir, there were many discoveries. Some made me laugh. Some made me wince. Some made me want to give my younger self a hug and a cup of hot, sweet tea. But one of the biggest standouts has been the path my dyslexia has taken me on.

I was only formally assessed last year, although I had suspected it for a long time. Looking back, I can see that dyslexia was there all along, shaping the way I thought, solved problems, communicated, imagined and coped. It was there in the child who could not always get the words right on the page, but who could tell great stories and see the bigger picture. It was there in the teenager who was too often made to feel “nice but dim”. It was there in the young woman who was determined to build her own telescope rather than accept the world as it was handed to her.

That matters, because dyslexia is still so often described only in terms of what it makes difficult. And yes, some things are difficult. Reading and writing are still a slog, processing information can take more brain power than I would like – and my spelling remains gloriously unreliable. But difficulty is not the whole story. Not even close.

If anything, writing my memoir has reminded me just how much I was underestimated. I went to 13 schools in 12 years during a childhood full of upheaval, custody battles and reinvention. At one point I ran away from home, clutching my little sister’s hand while proudly wearing my........

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