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Talking About the Hard Stuff: I’m Not a Failing Horse — I’m a Whole Zebra
- Dr Linnette M. Johnson
- 10 hours ago
- 5 min read
For a long time, I thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough.
From the time I was little, reading felt like climbing a mountain with pebbles in my shoes. Words blurred. Letters switched places. I had to take tests multiple times just to pass. Homework often ended in frustration — or tears.
Even as I got older and became a strong student, I never stopped feeling like I was running uphill. I earned a Doctorate in Clinical Nutrition, built a meaningful career, and poured my heart into helping others find balance and wellness. But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was always working harder than everyone else just to stay level.
I thought it was just me.
The Slow Unraveling of “Just Me”
Only in the past few years did I start connecting the dots — the reading challenges, the struggles with focus, the fatigue, the insomnia, the moments of emotional flooding, and the lifelong feeling of being different.
After months of reflection, research, and testing (still in progress), here’s what’s come to light:
Dyslexia — which I’d quietly suspected since childhood.
Auditory Processing Disorder — why listening comprehension and being read to always felt harder.
Mild ADHD — explaining my bursts of hyperfocus, time-blindness, and mental “noise.”
Anxiety, Depression, and Insomnia — likely woven through decades of overcompensation and emotional vigilance.
C-PTSD (Complex Trauma) — from years of growing up in instability and learning to survive by staying alert.
And layered across it all — Hashimoto’s, PCOS, and Celiac Disease.
Each diagnosis alone might sound manageable. Together, they tell a much deeper story — one about how the brain, body, and nervous system are endlessly intertwined.
The Moment That Pushed Wanting to Know — Me
During my doctorate program, one professor told me something I’ll never forget:
“You need to be more fluent and scientific in how you speak.”
I hope it wasn’t meant cruelly, but it hit hard. They said my explanations were “too simple,” “too conversational.”
And for a long time, I believed them.
That feedback reinforced years of internalized doubt — that I wasn’t “academic enough,” that my simpler communication style somehow meant I was less intelligent.
But over time — through reflection, therapy, and a lot of unlearning — I began to realize something profound: simplicity is strength.
The ability to translate complex science into human language isn’t a flaw; it’s a gift. My brain may not process information like everyone else’s, but it connects ideas, feelings, and people in ways that feel deeply human.
And isn’t that what true education — and healing — is about? Connection.
A Partner’s Quiet Knowing
One of the humbling parts of this journey has been realizing that my partner of 24 years wasn’t surprised by any of it.
He’d seen the patterns long before I did. The exhaustion. The restlessness. The way my brain would spin and lock onto things until I could make sense of them. But he never pushed, never labeled — he just waited patiently for me to find the language myself.
There’s something sacred in that kind of quiet witnessing. He gave me what I couldn’t yet give myself: grace.
Seeing the Whole Person
What I’ve come to understand — in my body, not just my mind — is that no part of us exists in isolation.
My thyroid condition affects my mood and energy. My ADHD traits and anxiety influence my sleep and focus. My Celiac disease impacts my gut-brain axis. My trauma history shapes my nervous system, which affects everything else.
They’re not separate stories — they’re one ecosystem.
We are all ecosystems — physical, emotional, mental, spiritual — and when one part is under stress, the others respond.
As a Clinical Nutritionist, I’d been taught to look at labs, macros, and metabolic pathways. But as a human who has lived this, I’ve learned to look deeper. Now, when I meet clients who are struggling, I don’t just ask “What are you eating?” I ask:
How are you sleeping?
What’s your stress level like?
How do you talk to yourself when you’re tired or discouraged?
Where do you feel safe — and where don’t you?
Because food doesn’t heal in isolation, safety heals. Connection heals. Self-compassion heals.
The Intersection of Neurodiversity and Healing
Living with neurodivergence has shaped how I teach, coach, and communicate.
I know what it feels like to have a brilliant mind that sometimes can’t find the words. I know what it’s like to “freeze” during an exam or a meeting, not from lack of knowledge, but from overwhelm. I know how frustrating it is to have your confidence questioned because your delivery doesn’t fit someone else’s mold.
That’s why, in my work now, I refuse to shame people into change. I use language that feels safe, simple, and clear — because that’s how learning sticks.
And I remind my clients: there’s nothing wrong with you. Your body isn’t broken. Your mind isn’t defective. You’re not a failing horse. You’re a zebra — uniquely patterned, brilliantly adaptive, and resilient beyond measure.
When Simplicity Becomes Your Superpower
There’s a line I come back to often:
“You were never too much — you were just in an environment that asked you to be less.”
That’s how it felt in academia, and honestly, sometimes in healthcare too. The more I simplified complex concepts for patients or students, the more resistance I’d meet from colleagues who equated sophistication with jargon.
But here’s the truth: science isn’t meaningful unless it’s accessible. If someone leaves my session understanding their body better, I’ve done my job.
My dyslexia and auditory processing differences actually make me a better educator. They’ve trained me to explain things visually, step-by-step, with metaphors that click. I don’t overcomplicate — I translate.
And I’ve stopped apologizing for that.
How My Story Shapes 5 Elements Coaching
At 5 Elements Coaching, I bring this whole self — the clinician, the researcher, the neurodivergent thinker, the trauma survivor, the human.
Every client I work with is unique. Some come with digestive issues, others with burnout or emotional eating. Some are navigating hormonal chaos or autoimmune flares. Many carry invisible stress that no lab panel can measure.
My approach now is integrative and trauma-informed — because real healing doesn’t happen through food plans alone. It happens when people feel seen, understood, and safe to listen to their own bodies again.
When clients tell me, “I feel like you really get it,” it’s because I do. I’ve lived it.
The truth is: I’m not just teaching nutrition. I’m teaching self-connection.
The Lesson in the Stripes
If I could go back and talk to that younger version of myself — the one sitting in a quiet closet trying to sound out words, the one terrified of being “found out” in graduate school — I’d tell her this:
You’re not slow. You’re not lazy. You’re not broken.
You’re simply wired differently — beautifully, brilliantly, and resiliently.
You’ve been surviving in a world that wasn’t designed for you. But you’re not here to fit in. You’re here to expand what “normal” looks like.
And the more you show up as your whole self — messy, curious, simple, compassionate — the more others will find permission to do the same.
I’m not a failing horse. I’m a whole zebra — stripes, stories, and all.
This journey isn’t over, and that’s okay. Because healing isn’t about arriving; it’s about learning to see yourself fully.
Every day, I’m grateful for the chance to walk alongside others who are discovering their own patterns, their own brilliance, and their own version of healing.
We’re all works in progress. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes us whole.
