Learning has always been central in my life. Not because it came easily — but precisely because it didn't.
From an early age, I faced the challenges of severe dyslexia. School, which is supposed to be a place built for learning, often felt like a place built for a very specific kind of learner — and I wasn't it. Reading was slow. Spelling was a minefield. The gap between what I understood and what I could get onto a page in the “right” way was wide and, for a long time, humiliating.
What dyslexia taught me, though, turned out to be more valuable than the things it made hard. It taught me that there is no single way to learn — and that a system which only rewards one way will quietly lose a lot of capable people who simply needed a different door.
Finding the side doors
I got good at side doors. If I couldn't absorb something by reading it, I'd learn it by talking it through, by building it, by teaching it to someone else. I leaned on people, on visuals, on patterns. None of that was “cheating.” It was just learning that fit the learner — which is what learning is supposed to be in the first place.
The thing that made school hardest for me is the exact thing I now spend my career trying to fix for other people.
Why I build what I build
It's not a coincidence that I ended up co-founding a learning company. Almost everything I do — the certifications, the communities, the frameworks, the talks — comes back to one stubborn belief: that quality education is one of the few real levers we have on the hardest problems of this century, and that we waste enormous amounts of human potential by designing it for only one type of mind.
So when I talk about making learning “a little less boring,” I don't just mean more fun. I mean more human. More routes in. More ways to be capable. The kid who couldn't spell grew up to design how grown professionals learn — and I wouldn't trade that origin story for an easier one.
