🌟 1. Introduction: Turning Obstacles into Opportunities
Life has a way of throwing obstacles in our path, often when we least expect them. Some challenges are obvious, while others remain hidden, shaping our experiences without us fully understanding why. Today, I want to share my journey—one defined by resilience, self-discovery, and the determination to succeed despite the odds.
From struggling in school to building and running my own business, I’ve faced more hurdles than I can count. One of the biggest challenges I’ve had to navigate is the possibility of dyslexia. I say “possibility” because I’ve never been officially diagnosed by a medical professional. Growing up, there was little awareness or support for learning difficulties like dyslexia, and I went through school without any help. In fact, it wasn’t until I started creating everyday YouTube videos that a subscriber—someone who works with dyslexic individuals—noticed my struggles with reading and writing. That observation was a turning point for me.
Whether I have dyslexia or not, the reality is that I’ve faced significant difficulties with reading, writing, and comprehension throughout my life. These struggles didn’t just affect my education—they shaped my self-worth, my career choices, and the way I interact with the world. But here’s the thing: struggles don’t define you. It’s how you face them, adapt, and find your own way forward that truly matters.
In this article, I’ll take you through the challenges I’ve faced, from school days filled with dread to finding my passion in antiques and building a business on my own terms. Along the way, I’ll share the strategies that helped me succeed—not despite my struggles, but because of the resilience they taught me. If you’re facing your own challenges, whether it’s dyslexia, anxiety, or any other obstacle, I hope my story shows you that success is always possible. You just need to find the path that works for you.
Now, let me take you back to where it all began—my school days, where the first signs of struggle started to show.
📚 2. Growing Up with Undiagnosed Dyslexia
Looking back, my struggles with dyslexia—or what I now believe to be dyslexia—started as early as junior school, around the age of nine or ten. Of course, back then, neither I nor my teachers had a name for it. All I knew was that reading, writing, and understanding the words on a page felt like climbing a mountain while everyone else strolled up a gentle hill.
One of the clearest memories I have is of “reading aloud” sessions in class. The teacher would pick a student at random to stand up and read from a book while the rest of the class followed along. I can’t describe the anxiety that built up inside me as I waited for my turn. It was like a slow, creeping dread—dry mouth, sweaty palms, and the constant urge to be sick.
When my turn finally came, the real nightmare began. I’d stumble over words, replacing difficult ones with simpler guesses. If I couldn’t figure out a word, I’d make something up that sounded like it might fit the story. I wasn’t trying to be lazy or disruptive—I was just trying to survive the moment without embarrassing myself. But survival wasn’t always possible.
Instead of understanding that I was struggling, my teacher chose ridicule. I can still hear his sharp words, the mocking tone, and the laughter of my classmates echoing around the room. He didn’t pull me aside to ask if I needed help or suggest extra support. Instead, he made an example of me, and the rest of the class followed his lead, giving me nicknames and pushing me further into isolation.
If I had to describe how my brain worked back then, it would be like this: whenever I encountered a hard word, my mind would automatically search for a smaller, easier word with a similar meaning. If nothing came to mind, I’d guess—anything to keep the story flowing. Sometimes, I’d rearrange the order of words in a sentence because they sounded better in my head that way. Of course, none of this went unnoticed by my teacher or peers.
The emotional toll was immense. I began to hate school—not just dislike it, but genuinely despise every moment. The fear of being called out, the humiliation, and the constant reminder that I was somehow “less than” my classmates pushed me down a dangerous path. I started skipping school, hanging around with the wrong crowd, and avoiding anything that might expose my struggles. Eventually, I was expelled from comprehensive school, having barely attended for two years.
At the time, expulsion felt less like a punishment and more like a relief. No more classrooms, no more reading aloud, no more being the butt of every joke. But, as I would soon learn, leaving school didn’t mean leaving my struggles behind. It was just the beginning of a new chapter—one where I had to navigate the world without qualifications, support, or a clear path forward.
That chapter began the day I left school at 15, stepping into the world of work without a safety net. But if school had been tough, the real world was about to teach me an entirely different set of lessons.
🌱 3. Life After School: Facing the World Without Qualifications
Leaving school at 15 without qualifications felt like being dropped into the deep end without knowing how to swim. Back then, things were different. In England, you could leave school early as long as you had a job lined up, and that’s exactly what I did. I started working nights as a baker—long hours, little sleep, and plenty of time to think.
To be honest, I didn’t mind working nights. It suited me. While other kids my age were hanging out, playing football, or chasing girls, I was stacking trays of bread and pastries. I didn’t fit in with the crowds anyway. Social situations made me uncomfortable, and I often felt like an outsider. Even when someone invited me out, I’d convince myself it was out of sympathy, not genuine interest. In my head, it was easier to believe I wouldn’t be missed, so I chose isolation over rejection.
Over the next few years, I bounced between jobs and government-run YTS (Youth Training Scheme) courses designed to get young people into work. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to hold down a job for long. The pattern was always the same: misunderstandings, conflicts with employers or colleagues, and eventually, walking away or being asked to leave. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to work—I just struggled to fit into environments that didn’t understand how my mind worked.
Eventually, in search of structure and a fresh start, I joined the armed forces. It seemed like the perfect solution: clear instructions, discipline, and no reading or writing required—just physical effort and mental resilience. And for a while, it worked. I thrived during basic training, pushing myself harder than I ever had before. But life has a way of testing you just when you think you’ve found solid ground.
While stationed at Strensall in York for specialist training, I suffered a knee injury. Instead of allowing me time to heal, I was put on light duties, which only made things worse. Before I knew it, I was facing medical discharge—a bitter pill to swallow after working so hard to find my place. To make matters worse, I pursued a lawsuit against the forces, believing I had a strong case. But fate intervened once again. My barrister had a skiing accident, and my medical specialist—whose testimony was crucial—died in a private plane crash. The new specialist disagreed with the original diagnosis, and the case fell apart. In the end, I settled for a nominal amount, a far cry from what I had hoped for.
By that point, my trust in authority was shattered. I’d been let down by the education system, the workplace, and now the military. One thing became crystal clear: if I was ever going to succeed, I’d have to do it on my own terms. I realized I couldn’t work for someone else—not because I wasn’t capable, but because I couldn’t tolerate being treated unfairly or disrespected. If someone spoke to me with kindness and understanding, I’d give them everything I had. But the moment I felt belittled, any motivation I had vanished.
Even now, at 45, that mindset hasn’t changed. I’ve seen family members and loved ones mistreated by younger, less experienced bosses, and I’ve promised myself I’d never allow that to happen to me. Self-employment wasn’t just a choice—it was the only option that made sense.
It was around this time that I had another realization—one that hit me hard while preparing this article. I can count my close friends on one hand. Social awkwardness has followed me throughout my life, making simple interactions feel like monumental challenges. I can manage a quick hello or ask the price of an item at a car boot sale, but holding a conversation? That’s a different story. My discomfort becomes obvious, and people who don’t know me might think I’m being rude when, in reality, I’m just overwhelmed by anxiety.
This social struggle extends to my YouTube channel, too. When a follower or supporter takes the time to say hello, I’m genuinely humbled. It means the world to me. But in those moments, I freeze. I don’t know what to say, and the awkwardness rises to a paralyzing level. It’s not because I’m ungrateful—it’s because social interaction has never been my strong suit.
That’s why, even now, I keep my social life small and controlled. I go out only for work or with my fiancée and children, choosing quiet environments like a meal out, a trip to the cinema, or a walk on the beach. You won’t find me in a crowded club, at a lads’ night out, or cheering at a football match. It’s just not who I am.
But while social struggles have shaped my personal life, they’ve also fueled my determination to build something of my own—something that doesn’t rely on fitting into a world that never quite understood me. And that’s exactly what I did. The journey from isolation to entrepreneurship wasn’t easy, but it was the path I needed to take.
The next chapter of my life didn’t just change my career—it changed how I saw myself and my potential. And it all started with a decision to stop trying to fit into someone else’s mold and start creating my own path forward.
🎖 4. Military Service and Unexpected Setbacks
Joining the armed forces felt like a fresh start—a chance to escape the dead-end jobs, the social struggles, and the constant feeling of not fitting in. The military offered something I desperately needed: structure, routine, and clear expectations. There were no complicated instructions to read, no exams to pass, just hard work and determination. That, I could handle.
Basic training pushed me to my limits, both physically and mentally, but for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged. It didn’t matter if I struggled to read or write; what mattered was showing up, giving it everything I had, and proving my worth through action, not words. I thrived in that environment, finally feeling a sense of achievement and pride.
But life has a way of throwing curveballs when you least expect them. While stationed in Strensall, York, for specialist training, I suffered a knee injury. At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal—just a bit of pain, nothing I couldn’t push through. But instead of being given time to rest and recover, I was placed on light duties. That might sound like a break, but in reality, it only made things worse. Without proper care, the injury worsened, and before I knew it, my military career was over.
Being medically discharged was a devastating blow. I had finally found something I was good at, something that gave me purpose, and it was ripped away from me because of an injury I hadn’t even been allowed to recover from properly. It felt unfair, and I wasn’t willing to let it go without a fight.
I decided to pursue a lawsuit against the military. It wasn’t about the money—it was about standing up for myself, about proving that I’d been wronged and deserved better. For two years, I worked tirelessly with my legal team, gathering witness statements, medical reports, and every piece of evidence we could find. It felt like I was finally taking control of my life, standing up to the system that had failed me.
But fate had other plans. My barrister, the person leading my case, had a skiing accident and was unable to continue. As if that weren’t enough, my original medical specialist—whose testimony was crucial—died in a private plane crash. When a new specialist reviewed my case, they had a different opinion about the long-term impact of my injury. With my strongest supporters gone and conflicting medical opinions on the table, my case fell apart.
In the end, I was offered a settlement. It was a pathetic, nominal amount—nothing close to what I had hoped for. But by that point, I was drained. Fighting had taken its toll, and I realized I had to let it go and move on. The experience didn’t just leave me physically injured; it left me with a deep distrust of authority and a determination never to put my future in someone else’s hands again.
That was the moment I truly understood that working for others—whether in the military, a regular job, or any structured environment—was never going to work for me. Not because I couldn’t do the job, but because I couldn’t stand being at the mercy of people who didn’t care about my well-being. If I was ever going to build a life worth living, I’d have to do it on my own terms.
But knowing that and making it happen were two very different things. I was injured, angry, and directionless. I had no qualifications, no career path, and no idea what to do next. What I did have, though, was resilience—the same resilience that had kept me pushing through school, through countless jobs, and through the military.
It was that resilience that eventually led me to self-employment. I didn’t know it at the time, but the struggles I faced were quietly shaping me into someone who could build something from nothing, who could turn passion into a career, and who could succeed without fitting into the traditional mold.
Of course, getting to that point wasn’t easy. The road ahead was filled with more challenges—financial struggles, social anxiety, and the ever-present obstacles dyslexia presented. But for the first time in my life, I was ready to face those challenges on my own terms, no longer relying on systems that had let me down time and time again.
That’s when I stumbled upon something that would change everything: antiques. It wasn’t just a hobby or a way to make money; it was a path to independence, a chance to build a life around something I loved, using skills I had unknowingly been developing for years. But before I could turn that passion into a career, I had to confront another challenge—one that had been with me all along but had gone undiagnosed and unaddressed: my social struggles and the anxiety that came with them.
🤝 5. Coping with Social Anxiety and Isolation
While dyslexia made reading and writing a daily challenge, another struggle quietly shaped my life: social anxiety. I didn’t recognize it as anxiety back then—I just thought I was different, awkward, and not cut out for social settings. Looking back, it’s clear how much dyslexia and the constant fear of embarrassment fueled that isolation.
From a young age, I found comfort in solitude. It was easier to be alone than to risk being called out for misreading a word, misunderstanding instructions, or simply not fitting in. Even after leaving school and entering the workforce, that feeling of being an outsider never really left me. I could do the job, sometimes better than others, but when it came to socializing with coworkers or fitting into a team, I always felt out of place.
The pattern continued throughout my life. When I worked nights as a baker, I didn’t mind the quiet hours while the world slept. There was no pressure to make small talk, no fear of being judged. I convinced myself that isolation was a choice, something I preferred. But the truth was, it was easier than facing the discomfort of social interaction.
Even now, at 45, that anxiety still lingers. I can handle quick exchanges—asking the price of something at a car boot sale or greeting someone in passing. But when a conversation extends beyond a few sentences, the discomfort rises. My mind races, searching for the right words, worried I’ll say something wrong or stumble over a simple sentence. To someone who doesn’t know me, it might come across as rudeness, but it’s not. It’s anxiety, plain and simple.
This struggle became even more apparent when I started my YouTube channel. Sharing videos from the comfort of my own space was one thing, but when viewers recognized me in public and came over to say hello, I froze. Don’t get me wrong—those moments mean the world to me. Knowing that someone appreciates my content enough to stop and say hello is humbling. But in the moment, I become like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to say or how to keep the conversation going.
It’s not that I don’t want to connect with people. In fact, the support I’ve received from my YouTube community has been life-changing. It’s just that social interaction has never been easy for me. That’s why my personal life is intentionally quiet and controlled. I spend time with my fiancée and children, and when we go out, it’s to places where I know I won’t feel overwhelmed—a meal at a quiet restaurant, a trip to the cinema, or a peaceful walk on the beach.
You won’t find me in crowded clubs, on lads’ nights out, or cheering in the stands at a football match. It’s not because I don’t enjoy fun or company—it’s because those environments heighten my anxiety to a level that’s hard to explain. I’m most comfortable in settings where I can be myself without the pressure of constant social interaction.
This social awkwardness didn’t just affect my personal life—it had a direct impact on my career path, too. In traditional workplaces, social skills are often as important as job performance. I could handle the work itself, but team meetings, casual conversations, and the need to constantly engage with others made every job feel like a battlefield. It became clear that if I was going to succeed, I needed to find a path where I could work independently, relying on my skills rather than my ability to navigate social dynamics.
That realization was a turning point. It’s what ultimately led me to self-employment and, eventually, to the world of antiques. In the antique trade, knowledge and expertise speak louder than social charm. It’s about understanding the value of an item, spotting the details others might miss, and trusting your instincts. I didn’t need to fit into a team or impress a boss—I just needed to know my stuff and be willing to put in the work.
Of course, running a business comes with its own challenges, especially when you’re dealing with dyslexia and social anxiety. But for the first time in my life, I was in control. I could set my own pace, choose my own environment, and build something that played to my strengths rather than exposing my weaknesses.
This shift didn’t happen overnight, and the road ahead was far from smooth. But the decision to work for myself—to embrace who I was rather than trying to fit into a world that didn’t understand me—was the first step toward building a life I could truly be proud of.
That life began with antiques, a world I stumbled into almost by accident but quickly realized was my path to independence. And like every other chapter of my journey, it came with its own set of obstacles—obstacles I had to find new ways to overcome.
💼 6. Building a Business: From Antiques to Entrepreneurship
After years of feeling like I didn’t belong—in school, the workplace, and even the military—I finally realized something life-changing: if I couldn’t fit into the world around me, I’d build my own path. That realization led me to antiques, not just as a hobby but as a career and, ultimately, a lifeline to independence.
The antique trade wasn’t something I planned. It started with curiosity—seeing old objects at car boot sales, wondering about their history, and noticing how some sellers seemed to know exactly what they were looking at while others passed by without a second glance. I found myself drawn to the items with stories behind them, fascinated by the idea that something decades or even centuries old could still hold value today.
But turning that interest into a business wasn’t easy, especially with the challenges dyslexia brought to the table. Reading reference books, identifying signatures, and understanding historical contexts were all uphill battles. While others might breeze through an auction catalog or an antique guide, I’d stumble over unfamiliar words, struggle to pronounce names, and often lose the meaning of entire paragraphs because I was so focused on decoding individual words.
Still, something about the antique world clicked with me. Unlike traditional education or corporate jobs, success in antiques didn’t depend on how well you read or wrote. It depended on knowledge, instinct, and experience—skills you could build through hands-on learning. And that’s exactly what I did.
I threw myself into the trade, learning in the only way that worked for me: visually, practically, and through real-world experience. I watched countless episodes of Bargain Hunt, Flog It, and Antiques Road Trip, absorbing the knowledge shared by experts. These shows broke down complex information into simple, understandable terms, and because it was visual, I could retain it far better than anything I’d read in a book.
Attending auctions became my classroom. I wasn’t just there to buy or sell—I was there to learn. Auction houses provide straightforward descriptions of items, and being able to handle the objects while reading about them made a world of difference. It’s one thing to read about the weight and texture of a genuine antique, but holding it in your hands while comparing it to a modern replica? That’s a lesson you never forget.
I also made it a point to build relationships with antique dealers. I’d buy items at full price—not just for the item itself, but for the knowledge the dealer could share. I’d ask them to explain why an object was authentic, what details to look for, and how to spot a fake. Surprisingly, most were more than happy to share their expertise. After all, the more knowledgeable I became, the more likely I was to buy from them again.
Of course, not every purchase was a success. In my early years, I made plenty of mistakes—buying items I thought were genuine, only to find out they were reproductions or had little value. But each mistake was a lesson. Auctioneers would explain why an item wasn’t what I thought it was, and believe me, when a mistake costs you money and dents your pride, you don’t forget it.
These were expensive lessons, but they were also invaluable. I quickly realized that in the antique world, knowledge truly is power. The more you know, the less likely you are to get caught out—and the more confident you become in your buying and selling decisions.
What made the antique trade different from any job I’d had before was the freedom it offered. I wasn’t answering to a boss, worrying about fitting into a team, or stressing over written reports. My success depended entirely on my own effort, instincts, and willingness to keep learning. And for the first time in my life, that felt like enough.
But while antiques gave me a path to self-employment, the challenges of dyslexia didn’t disappear. Reading inscriptions on pottery, identifying artists’ signatures on paintings, and understanding historical documents were all constant struggles. I couldn’t rely on traditional methods of learning or research, so I had to find workarounds—creative solutions that allowed me to succeed despite the obstacles.
That’s when I started developing my own system—one built around my strengths rather than my weaknesses. Instead of trying to read entire books cover to cover, I’d skim for key facts, write them down in my own words, and create what I called my “bible” of antique knowledge. I found that by simplifying information and making it visual, I could retain it far better.
The more I leaned into these strategies, the more confident I became. I wasn’t just surviving in the antique trade—I was thriving. And with each success, I proved to myself that struggles like dyslexia didn’t have to define my future. They were obstacles, yes, but not insurmountable ones. With the right mindset, persistence, and creativity, I could carve out a life on my own terms.
Of course, running a business wasn’t without its challenges. From bookkeeping to cataloging inventory, the day-to-day tasks required constant adaptation. But each problem I faced only reinforced what I’d already learned: success isn’t about avoiding challenges—it’s about finding ways to overcome them.
That mindset became the foundation of everything I built, not just in business but in life. And as I continued to grow my antique trade, I realized that the very struggles that had once held me back were now the driving force behind my success.
But the journey didn’t end there. With every step forward came new challenges—each requiring its own set of solutions. And as my business grew, so did my determination to keep pushing past the limits dyslexia tried to impose on me.
📈 7. Challenges in Running a Business with Dyslexia
Building a business around antiques gave me freedom and independence, but it didn’t erase the challenges that came with dyslexia. If anything, running my own business highlighted just how many everyday tasks were made harder by my struggles with reading, writing, and comprehension.
One of the biggest challenges I faced—and still face—is reading signatures and inscriptions. In the antique world, identifying an artist’s signature on a painting or the maker’s mark on a piece of pottery can mean the difference between discovering a rare treasure and wasting your money on a worthless replica. But for me, deciphering handwritten inscriptions has always felt like trying to crack an impossible code.
Studio pottery, for example, often has the artist’s name or a pottery mark etched into the base. For most antique dealers, a quick glance is enough to identify the maker and value. But for me, those scribbled letters might as well be hieroglyphics. I’d stare at the mark, trying to make sense of it, often second-guessing myself and missing out on potential buys because I couldn’t confidently identify the piece on the spot.
Reading reference books was another major hurdle. In the antique trade, knowledge is everything, and many experts build their understanding through extensive reading. But for me, getting through a single book could take weeks—if not months. While my fiancée could finish a book in a couple of days and retain every detail, I’d struggle to get past the first few pages without losing focus or forgetting what I’d just read.
It wasn’t just about reading slowly. If I came across a difficult word or an unfamiliar name—especially foreign place names or historical terms—I’d get stuck. My brain would fixate on the word, trying to sound it out, while the meaning of the entire paragraph slipped away. It was frustrating, to say the least, and more than once, I nearly gave up on trying to expand my knowledge through traditional means.
One moment that stands out happened about a decade ago when I decided to pursue a backup trade as a plumber. The antique business was unpredictable, and I wanted a safety net. I enrolled in a full-time, two-year plumbing course, thinking I could balance it with my antique work. But on the first day, they handed us a massive manual—the JTL Plumbing Guide. It was filled with detailed instructions, regulations, and technical terms, most of which I couldn’t read without stumbling.
But I wasn’t about to let dyslexia hold me back. I found a workaround: instead of trying to read and understand every word, I focused on the images, diagrams, and simplified explanations. When it came time for exams, I used the computer-based multiple-choice tests to my advantage. I’d practice the same tests over and over until I could recognize the correct answers by sight, not by reading the questions in full. It wasn’t the conventional way to learn, but it worked for me—and that was all that mattered.
That experience taught me an important lesson: success isn’t about following the same path as everyone else. It’s about finding your own route—one that plays to your strengths rather than highlighting your weaknesses. I applied that mindset to my antique business, developing systems that allowed me to work efficiently despite my struggles with reading and writing.
For example, I stopped trying to read entire reference books cover to cover. Instead, I’d skim through them, jotting down key facts in a notebook using words I could easily understand and remember. That notebook became my personal antique bible—a resource I could trust and rely on without getting bogged down by complex language or lengthy explanations.
I also learned to lean on technology. Google Image Search became a game-changer. If I found an item at a car boot sale or auction and couldn’t identify it on the spot, I’d snap a photo and run it through Google. Nine times out of ten, I’d find a match, complete with the name, history, and value of the item. It wasn’t foolproof, but it gave me an edge I wouldn’t have had otherwise.
Speech-to-text apps like Speechify also transformed how I consumed information. Instead of struggling to read pages of text, I could take a picture of a book or article and have my phone read it aloud to me. Listening, rather than reading, allowed me to absorb information faster and with less frustration. It was like unlocking a door that had been closed to me for years.
But perhaps the most valuable lesson I learned was this: it’s okay to ask for help. In the antique world, knowledge is often shared freely among dealers, auctioneers, and collectors. I stopped pretending I knew everything and started asking questions. If I couldn’t read a signature, I’d ask another dealer. If I didn’t understand a historical reference, I’d look it up using voice search rather than typing it out.
Of course, there were still moments of frustration. Cataloging inventory, for example, was a nightmare at first. I’d mix up item descriptions, struggle to spell names correctly, and lose track of stock. But instead of giving up, I adapted. I created simple spreadsheets in Google Sheets—color-coded, easy to navigate, and stripped of complicated formulas. It wasn’t the most sophisticated system, but it worked for me.
Through trial and error, I built a business that didn’t just accommodate my dyslexia but thrived because of the resilience and problem-solving skills it had forced me to develop. I realized that while dyslexia made certain tasks harder, it also gave me a unique way of looking at the world—one that valued creativity, hands-on learning, and practical solutions over traditional methods.
Running a business with dyslexia is far from easy, but it’s proof that success isn’t reserved for those who fit neatly into the educational or professional systems. It’s for anyone willing to adapt, persist, and find their own way forward.
And for me, that way forward wasn’t just about overcoming obstacles—it was about turning them into opportunities. Opportunities to learn, grow, and build a life on my own terms, one antique at a time.
🔑 8. How I Overcame Dyslexia to Master My Trade
Building a business in the antique trade wasn’t just about learning what to buy and sell—it was about finding ways to overcome the challenges dyslexia presented every single day. Traditional learning methods didn’t work for me, so I had to get creative, finding strategies that played to my strengths rather than highlighting my weaknesses.
One of the most powerful tools in my journey was visual learning. I’ve probably watched every episode of Bargain Hunt, Flog It, Antiques Road Trip, and Cash in the Attic. While some people might watch these shows for entertainment, I treated them like a classroom. The way the experts broke down the history and value of items in simple, straightforward language made it easier for me to absorb the information. Seeing the items on screen while hearing the explanations cemented that knowledge in a way that reading never could.
But television could only teach me so much. To truly master my trade, I had to get hands-on experience. I started attending auctions—not just to buy and sell, but to learn. Auction houses became my school. The beauty of an auction catalog is its simplicity: short descriptions, clear categories, and the chance to physically inspect the items before bidding. I’d read the catalog description, handle the object, and connect the words to the item itself. That kind of tactile learning made all the difference.
I also made a point of learning from experienced dealers. In my early years, I’d often buy items at full price—not just because I wanted the item, but because it gave me an opportunity to ask questions. I’d say, “How do you know this is genuine? What should I look for? What makes this different from a reproduction?” Most dealers were more than happy to share their knowledge. After all, the more I knew, the more likely I was to become a repeat customer. And once someone explained something to me in simple terms, I never forgot it.
Of course, not every lesson came from success. Some of the most valuable knowledge I gained came from my mistakes. I’d buy something I believed was authentic, only to find out it was a reproduction or had been repaired in a way that devalued it. Losing money stings, but it also teaches you fast. When an auctioneer or dealer explained why an item wasn’t what I thought it was, that lesson stuck with me far more than anything I could have read in a book.
These experiences taught me to rely on my strengths: observation, pattern recognition, and hands-on learning. I found that I had a near-photographic memory for facts when they were presented visually or explained in plain language. If I saw an authentic piece once and someone pointed out the telltale signs of its originality, I could spot the same features—or the lack of them—on future items without hesitation.
But while my knowledge grew, the challenge of reading and writing didn’t magically disappear. I still struggled with reference books. Many of these books are written in dense, academic language, often filled with historical context that, while interesting, made it harder for me to extract the key facts. I’d find myself frustrated, reading the same paragraph over and over without retaining anything.
That’s when I developed my own system for learning. Instead of trying to read an entire book, I’d focus on the sections that mattered most—descriptions, identification tips, and price guides. I’d jot down the important points in a notebook, using my own words and abbreviations. This notebook became my personal antique bible—a resource I could flip through quickly without getting bogged down by complex language.
I also started using technology to bridge the gap. Google Image Search became one of my most valuable tools. If I found an item I couldn’t identify, I’d snap a photo, upload it to Google, and let the search engine do the work. Nine times out of ten, I’d find a matching image with enough information to point me in the right direction. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it gave me confidence in situations where reading alone would have left me stuck.
Speech-to-text apps like Speechify also revolutionized how I consumed information. Instead of struggling to read long articles or book chapters, I could take a picture of the page and have my phone read it aloud to me. Listening, rather than reading, allowed me to absorb information faster and with less frustration. It turned what used to be an uphill battle into something manageable—even enjoyable.
Facebook groups and online forums also became part of my learning toolkit. There are countless communities dedicated to antique collecting and dealing, where members share knowledge, ask questions, and discuss their finds. But I quickly learned to take this advice with a pinch of salt. Not everyone in these groups is an expert, and sometimes well-meaning advice can lead you down the wrong path. I used these platforms as a starting point, always double-checking information before making a decision.
The more I embraced these alternative learning methods, the more confident I became in my trade. I stopped comparing myself to others who could breeze through reference books or write detailed descriptions without a second thought. Instead, I focused on what I could do: identify quality items by sight and touch, remember key facts after seeing them once, and find creative solutions to challenges that might have stopped someone else in their tracks.
But perhaps the most important lesson I learned was this: dyslexia doesn’t define you unless you let it. Yes, it made certain aspects of my business harder, but it also forced me to think outside the box, develop unique problem-solving skills, and approach my work with a level of determination I might not have had otherwise.
In the end, overcoming dyslexia wasn’t about eliminating the struggle—it was about adapting, finding tools that worked for me, and refusing to let traditional expectations hold me back. And as my business grew, so did my confidence—not just in my ability to succeed, but in the value of carving my own path, one step at a time.
🛠 9. Tools and Resources That Made a Difference
Overcoming dyslexia while running a business wasn’t just about grit and determination—it was about finding the right tools and resources to bridge the gap between what traditional methods expected and what actually worked for me. The world has changed a lot since my school days, and technology has become a powerful ally in overcoming learning challenges.
One of the most life-changing tools I discovered was Google Image Search. In the antique trade, identifying an item quickly can mean the difference between a great find and a missed opportunity. Before smartphones, I had to rely solely on memory and guesswork. But now, when I’m at a car boot sale or an auction and come across something unfamiliar, I just take a photo, upload it to Google, and within seconds, I have a wealth of information at my fingertips. It’s not always perfect, but it gives me enough to make an informed decision on the spot.
Another game-changer for me was Speechify, a text-to-speech app that transformed how I consumed written information. Reading long articles, reference books, or auction catalogs used to be exhausting and time-consuming. Now, I can snap a picture of a page, and the app reads it aloud to me. Listening, rather than reading, allows me to absorb information faster and with far less frustration. It’s like having an audiobook version of any text I need to understand.
For inscriptions and foreign texts—common in the antique world—Google Translate has been invaluable. Whether it’s a French pottery mark, a German silver hallmark, or Latin writing on an old document, I can use the app to scan the text and get an instant translation. It’s not always word-perfect, but it’s enough to point me in the right direction and avoid costly mistakes.
When it comes to writing—whether it’s listing items for sale, drafting invoices, or even preparing articles like this one—Grammarly has been a lifesaver. It catches spelling errors, suggests better phrasing, and ensures my writing is clear and professional. It doesn’t fix everything, but it gives me the confidence to communicate without constantly second-guessing myself.
Google Docs and Google Sheets became my go-to for bookkeeping and inventory management. I tried traditional bookkeeping software, but it was overwhelming and complicated. Instead, I created a simple spreadsheet system to track purchases, sales, and stock. I color-coded everything, kept the descriptions short and clear, and made sure I could navigate it quickly without getting bogged down by complex formulas. It’s not fancy, but it works for me—and that’s all that matters.
But technology wasn’t the only solution. I also leaned heavily on community resources. Facebook groups and online forums dedicated to antiques became places where I could ask questions, share finds, and learn from others. However, I quickly realized that not all advice was accurate. While many people mean well, their expertise can vary, and misinformation spreads easily. I learned to treat online advice as a starting point, not a final answer. If someone suggested an item might be rare or valuable, I’d use my other tools—Google, reference books, and auction sites—to verify the claim before making a decision.
Speaking of reference books, while I still find them challenging to read cover to cover, I’ve developed my own system for using them effectively. Instead of trying to digest entire chapters, I focus on fact-finding. I look for key details—identifying marks, date ranges, and distinguishing features—and jot them down in a notebook using simple language I can understand. This notebook has become my personal antique bible, a quick-reference guide that’s far more useful to me than any traditional textbook.
I also discovered that auctions themselves are incredible learning environments. Auctioneers often provide clear, concise descriptions of items, and being able to handle the objects while reading those descriptions helps reinforce my understanding. I’ve spent countless hours at viewings, not just to find items to buy, but to educate myself—examining pieces, comparing them to catalog descriptions, and asking auction staff questions. This hands-on approach taught me more than any book ever could.
Another tool I stumbled upon was YouTube, not just for watching antique shows but for tutorials and walkthroughs. There are countless channels where experts break down how to identify genuine antiques, spot reproductions, and understand the history behind different items. Being able to watch someone demonstrate a skill or explain a concept visually made it much easier for me to retain the information.
But perhaps the most important resource I found was experience itself. Every mistake, every misjudged purchase, and every item I struggled to identify became part of my learning process. I didn’t just memorize facts—I built understanding through trial and error, hands-on practice, and real-world problem-solving. In many ways, dyslexia forced me to become a better learner—not by traditional standards, but by developing resilience, adaptability, and creative thinking.
Of course, not every tool worked perfectly. I tried several inventory management apps, but most were too complicated or required more reading and data entry than I could comfortably manage. I realized that simplifying systems to suit my needs was more effective than trying to adapt to tools designed for people without learning challenges.
These tools and strategies didn’t just help me survive in the antique trade—they empowered me to thrive. They turned what once felt like insurmountable obstacles into manageable challenges. Dyslexia didn’t disappear, but it stopped being the thing that held me back. Instead, it became part of my story—a story of finding solutions, embracing technology, and proving that success doesn’t depend on how well you fit into traditional systems but on how well you adapt to the world around you.
And as my business grew, so did my confidence—not just in my ability to identify antiques or run a successful company, but in my capacity to navigate life on my own terms. The right tools didn’t erase my struggles, but they made the path forward clearer, proving that with the right support, no challenge is insurmountable.
🎥 10. Giving Back: Why I Created My YouTube Channel
Running my antique business taught me something unexpected: the strategies I developed to overcome dyslexia weren’t just helping me—they could help others, too. I realized that the challenges I’d faced, from struggling in school to navigating the working world without qualifications, weren’t unique to me. There were countless people out there, dealing with their own versions of the same struggle, unsure how to move forward. That realization planted the seed for my YouTube channel.
At first, the idea of putting myself out there was daunting. Social anxiety had always made public speaking difficult, and the thought of recording videos for the world to see felt overwhelming. But then I thought back to all the times I’d learned something valuable from watching others on YouTube—whether it was identifying an antique, understanding a business tip, or simply hearing someone share their story. If I could help even one person feel less alone or more capable of overcoming their own obstacles, it would be worth stepping outside my comfort zone.
So, I picked up my camera, hit record, and started sharing my journey. I didn’t try to pretend I was an expert or someone who had it all figured out. Instead, I spoke honestly about my experiences—about the struggles dyslexia brought into my business, the mistakes I’d made, and the strategies that had worked for me. I wanted my channel to be more than just a place to show off antique finds; I wanted it to be a resource for people who, like me, were trying to build a life on their own terms despite the odds.
One of my first videos was about how I use Google Image Search to identify antiques. It might seem like a simple trick, but for someone who struggles to read detailed descriptions or identify obscure maker’s marks, it’s a game-changer. The response was incredible. People started commenting, sharing their own stories of dyslexia, ADHD, or other learning challenges, and thanking me for showing them a practical solution they could use in their own lives.
That’s when it hit me: my YouTube channel wasn’t just about antiques—it was about empowerment. Every video I made, whether it was a haul of recent finds, a behind-the-scenes look at running my business, or a tutorial on using tech tools like Speechify, was another way to say, “You’re not alone, and you’re more capable than you think.”
I started creating more how-to videos, breaking down complex processes into simple, step-by-step explanations. I’d share tips for navigating auctions, identifying genuine antiques, and even managing the business side of things, like bookkeeping and inventory. Whenever I found a new tool or app that made life easier—like Google Translate for reading foreign inscriptions or Grammarly for writing item descriptions—I’d share it, knowing it might help someone else facing the same struggles.
But it wasn’t just about practical advice. I also wanted to share the mindset shifts that had been crucial to my own success. In one video, I talked about how I stopped viewing dyslexia as a limitation and started seeing it as a challenge to overcome. I shared how I’d learned to embrace mistakes as part of the learning process, rather than letting them knock my confidence. Those videos often sparked the most meaningful conversations, with viewers opening up about their own journeys and how they were finding ways to succeed despite the odds.
Of course, not every video was perfect. I stumbled over words, lost my train of thought, and sometimes had to record the same segment multiple times just to get it right. But instead of hiding those imperfections, I embraced them. After all, my whole message was about finding success despite challenges—so why pretend the process was flawless?
One of the most rewarding moments came when a viewer messaged me to say they’d been inspired to start their own business after watching my videos. They’d always believed dyslexia would hold them back, but seeing someone else succeed despite the same struggle gave them the confidence to try. That single message made every moment of self-doubt, every awkward on-camera moment, and every hour spent editing videos feel worth it.
Through my YouTube channel, I found a community of like-minded people—people who understood what it felt like to struggle in a world built for traditional learners, but who were determined not to let those struggles define their future. We shared tips, celebrated wins, and supported each other through setbacks. It was more than just content creation—it was connection, understanding, and mutual encouragement.
Running my YouTube channel didn’t just help others; it helped me, too. It pushed me to keep learning, to stay adaptable, and to continuously refine the strategies that made my business work. It reminded me that success isn’t about perfection—it’s about persistence, creativity, and the willingness to keep going, even when the path forward isn’t clear.
Today, my channel stands as proof that struggles like dyslexia don’t have to hold you back. They might make the journey harder, but they also build resilience, problem-solving skills, and a unique perspective that can be a powerful asset. Whether I’m sharing a haul video, offering business tips, or just talking about the realities of self-employment, my goal remains the same: to show that success is possible, no matter what obstacles stand in your way.
And if my videos can inspire even one more person to believe in their potential, then every challenge I’ve faced—and every solution I’ve found—has been more than worth it.
💪 11. The Power of Work Ethic: When the Work Becomes the Reward
If there’s one thing I’ve learned through my journey, it’s this: success doesn’t come from talent, luck, or even qualifications. It comes from showing up, day after day, and putting in the work—especially when there’s no immediate reward. A strong work ethic isn’t just about working hard; it’s about finding satisfaction in the process itself, rather than chasing quick results.
The reality is, most people start something with the expectation of fast rewards. Whether it’s recognition, growth, or tangible results, they want to see progress right away. And when that progress doesn’t come as quickly as they hoped, they give up. That’s why so many dreams die early—not because the person wasn’t capable, but because they didn’t stick around long enough to see their efforts pay off.
But here’s the truth: if you’re willing to work without expecting an immediate payoff, you’ve already given yourself a massive advantage. When the work itself becomes the reward, you stop worrying about how long it takes to succeed. You focus on improving, refining, and showing up consistently, no matter what.
Take YouTube, for example. Most people who start a channel will upload videos for a few weeks or maybe a couple of months. If their views don’t skyrocket or their subscriber count doesn’t grow, they lose motivation and quit. But the people who stick with it—the ones who keep creating content, week after week, year after year—are the ones who eventually break through. Just by continuing when others give up, you put yourself in the top percentage of creators.
The same applies to business. When you start a new venture, you won’t see instant success. Customers won’t flood in overnight, and profits won’t skyrocket after your first sale. That’s where most people get discouraged and walk away. But if you’re willing to keep working, even when the results are slow, you gain an edge. The work itself becomes the objective, and the timeline becomes irrelevant. Success becomes less about “if” and more about “when.”
I’ve seen this firsthand in my own business. When I first started dealing in antiques, I made countless mistakes. I bought items I couldn’t sell, misjudged values, and faced slow months where it felt like nothing was moving forward. But I kept going—not because I was seeing immediate success, but because I believed that if I worked long enough and hard enough, success would eventually follow. And it did.
The truth is, if you do something enough, you will get great at it. It’s not about being naturally gifted or having a head start—it’s about persistence. The more you work, the more you learn. The more you learn, the better you get. And eventually, the results you once hoped for start to show up—not because you chased them, but because you put in the time to earn them.
That’s the secret of a strong work ethic: it shifts your focus from short-term rewards to long-term mastery. When you no longer need external validation to keep going, you become unstoppable. You outlast the competition, you refine your skills, and you build something truly valuable—not overnight, but through consistent effort that compounds over time.
So, whether you’re starting a business, building a YouTube channel, or learning a new skill, remember this: the work itself is the reward. If you embrace that mindset, success becomes inevitable—not because you were lucky, but because you refused to quit when everyone else did.
❤️ 12. Conclusion: Struggles Don’t Define You
Writing this article has made me reflect on just how far I’ve come—not just in my business, but in life. From struggling through school, feeling like an outsider, and bouncing between jobs to finding my passion in antiques and building a successful business, one thing has become clear: struggles don’t define you. It’s how you respond to them that shapes your future.
Dyslexia, social anxiety, and the setbacks I faced along the way could have easily kept me stuck. There were plenty of moments when I felt like giving up, convinced that the world just wasn’t built for people like me. But each obstacle forced me to think differently, find new solutions, and develop skills I might never have discovered otherwise.
What I’ve learned is that success isn’t about fitting into a system that wasn’t designed for you. It’s about creating your own path—one that plays to your strengths and embraces your unique way of learning, working, and living. Dyslexia might make reading and writing harder, but it also taught me resilience, adaptability, and the value of thinking outside the box.
If there’s one message I hope you take from my story, it’s this: your struggles don’t have to hold you back. Whether it’s a learning difficulty, anxiety, or any other challenge, there’s always a way forward. It might not look like the traditional path, and it might take longer or require more trial and error, but success is absolutely possible if you’re willing to adapt and keep pushing forward.
For me, that path was self-employment in the antique trade—a world where hands-on learning, visual memory, and real-world experience mattered more than perfect spelling or fast reading. Along the way, I found tools like Google Image Search, Speechify, and Grammarly that helped level the playing field. I built systems that worked for me, not against me, and embraced the fact that my journey would look different from others.
But perhaps the most important part of this journey has been realizing that I’m not alone. Through my YouTube channel and conversations with others facing similar challenges, I’ve seen firsthand how powerful it can be to share experiences, exchange tips, and remind each other that we’re capable of more than we often believe.
If you’re reading this and struggling with your own obstacles—whether it’s dyslexia, anxiety, or something else entirely—know this: you are not defined by your struggles. You are defined by your resilience, your creativity, and your willingness to keep going, even when the odds feel stacked against you. Success isn’t reserved for those who follow the “normal” path. It’s available to anyone who’s willing to carve their own way forward.
So, whether you’re dreaming of starting a business, learning a new skill, or simply finding more confidence in your everyday life, don’t let your challenges convince you that it’s out of reach. Find the tools, strategies, and communities that support your unique way of learning and working. Embrace the journey, mistakes and all, and trust that every step forward—no matter how small—brings you closer to your goals.
In the end, the struggles I once thought would hold me back turned out to be the very things that pushed me toward success. They taught me resilience, patience, and the importance of finding my own way. And if I can do it, so can you.
Because the truth is, struggles don’t define you—your determination, creativity, and refusal to give up do.
I Did A Chat On Youtube Talking About This Topic If You Would Like To Check That Out.
