By Sarah Mitchell, Guest Contributor
I’ve been teaching children with reading difficulties for two decades now, and somewhere around year five, I started noticing something uncomfortable: some of my most well-meaning phrases were making things worse.
Not dramatically worse. Not obviously worse. But I’d see a child’s shoulders tense, or their face shut down, or they’d suddenly need the toilet right when we were about to start reading practice. Small signals that I’d said something that landed wrong.
So I started paying attention. And I started changing how I spoke.
This isn’t about being “politically correct” or walking on eggshells. It’s about understanding that words matter – especially to children who’ve spent years feeling like they’re failing at something that seems to come easily to everyone else.
Here are the phrases I’ve retired, and what I say now instead.
❌ “Just sound it out”
✅ “Let’s break it into chunks”
Why I stopped: “Just sound it out” implies it’s simple. Easy. Obvious. But for a child with dyslexia or a phonological processing difficulty, there is no “just” about it. The sounds don’t connect to the letters the way they should. Their brain literally processes it differently.
When I say “just,” I’m accidentally telling them: this should be easy, and if it’s not, that’s your fault.
What works better: “Let’s break it into chunks” or “Let’s look at the first part” acknowledges that the task requires strategy, not just effort. It gives them a concrete action instead of a vague instruction.
I had a Year 5 student who’d been told “just sound it out” for years. She thought she was stupid because something that was apparently “just” simple was impossibly hard for her. When I switched to “let’s chunk it,” her whole body relaxed. She wasn’t failing at something easy. She was learning a technique.
❌ “You read this word yesterday!”
✅ “Yesterday’s brain isn’t today’s brain”
Why I stopped: God, I said this so many times early in my career. I’d be baffled – genuinely baffled – that a child could read “because” on Monday and stare blankly at it on Tuesday.
But here’s what I’ve learned: memory consolidation doesn’t work the same way for every child. Neurodivergent kids especially can have wildly different capacity day to day. Anxiety affects recall. Sleep affects recall. Whether they’ve eaten breakfast affects recall.
When I say “you read this yesterday,” I’m implying they’re not trying hard enough. That they’re being careless or lazy. But that’s not what’s happening. Their brain genuinely can’t access that information right now.
What works better: “Yesterday’s brain isn’t today’s brain” normalizes fluctuation. It tells them this is how brains work sometimes, not evidence that they’re failing.
I also use: “Your brain’s tired today, let’s make this easier” or “Not there yet today? That’s alright, let’s use a different strategy.”
One of my ADHD students started using this phrase himself. “Miss, my brain’s not brain-ing today.” Perfect. He’d learned to recognize his own capacity and advocate for support instead of pushing through and melting down.
❌ “Try harder”
✅ “What part is hard right now?”
Why I stopped: “Try harder” assumes the problem is effort. But I’ve never taught a struggling reader who wasn’t trying. They’re trying so hard they’re exhausted. They’re trying so hard they’re in tears. They’re trying so hard they’ve developed elaborate avoidance strategies because trying and failing feels worse than not trying at all.
“Try harder” is what you say when you don’t know what else to say. It’s a thought-stopper, not a solution.
What works better: “What part is hard right now?” gives them language to identify the actual problem. Is it decoding? Remembering what they just read? The length of the sentences? The unfamiliar vocabulary?
Once we know what’s hard, we can address it. Maybe we need to chunk the words differently. Maybe we need to read it aloud together first. Maybe we need a completely different book.
I worked with a Year 3 boy who’d shut down every time reading got difficult. When I started asking “what part is tricky?” he’d actually tell me: “The words are too close together” or “I don’t know what’s happening in the story.” Fixable problems. But I had to ask the right question first.
❌ “You’re so smart, why is reading hard for you?”
✅ “Smart brains can work differently”
Why I stopped: This one’s insidious because it sounds like a compliment. “You’re so smart!” feels positive. But the second half – “why is reading hard for you?” – carries an accusation: if you’re smart, reading should be easy.
It tells the child that intelligence and reading ability are the same thing. Which means if reading is hard, maybe they’re not actually smart. Maybe everyone’s wrong about them.
I’ve sat with too many bright, capable children who’ve internalized this message. They think they’re “faking” being smart because the one thing that’s supposed to prove intelligence – reading – is the thing they can’t do.
What works better: “Smart brains can work differently” separates intelligence from reading ability. It tells them their brain is working fine, just not in the standard way. There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re not broken.
I also use: “Reading and thinking use different brain paths” or “You’re clever in ways that don’t show up in reading.”
One of the most heartbreaking moments of my career was a dyslexic Year 6 girl who told me: “I know everyone says I’m smart, but I think they’re just being nice because I’m stupid.” She wasn’t stupid. She was brilliant. But years of “you’re so smart, why can’t you read?” had convinced her otherwise.
❌ “Reading is fun!”
✅ “Reading’s hard for you right now. That’s not your fault.”
Why I stopped: Reading is fun… if you’re good at it. If you’re not, it’s slow, frustrating, exhausting work. Telling a struggling reader that reading is fun feels like gaslighting. They’re sitting there, fighting through every sentence, and I’m cheerfully insisting they should be enjoying themselves.
It also implies that if they don’t find it fun, something’s wrong with them. Everyone else thinks reading is fun. Why don’t you?
What works better: Acknowledge reality. “Reading’s hard for you right now. That’s not your fault” validates their experience instead of denying it. It tells them they’re not broken for not enjoying something that’s genuinely difficult.
And here’s the thing: once reading gets easier, it often does become enjoyable. But we have to get through the hard bit first. Pretending it’s not hard doesn’t help anyone.
I had a Year 4 student who visibly relaxed when I said this. “My last teacher kept saying I’d love it once I tried,” she told me. “But I do try, and I hate it.” Finally, someone had told her the truth: it’s okay to hate something that’s hard. That doesn’t make you defective.
❌ “If you don’t practice, you won’t improve”
✅ “When you’re ready to practice, I’m here”
Why I stopped: Technically true. Practice does help. But “if you don’t practice, you won’t improve” is a threat dressed up as motivation. It puts all the responsibility on the child and ignores every reason why practice might be difficult: anxiety, exhaustion, shame, lack of appropriate materials, family chaos, all of it.
It also ignores the fact that for some children, practice has become so associated with failure that forcing it does more harm than good. They need a break. They need to remember that learning can feel safe before we ask them to try again.
What works better: “When you’re ready to practice, I’m here” removes the pressure and returns the power to them. It tells them I’m not going anywhere. They’re not on a countdown clock. We’ll work when they’re ready to work.
This one’s hard for teachers because we worry we’re “letting them off the hook.” But I’ve found the opposite: when children feel safe, when they feel in control, they’re more willing to try. Forcing practice when they’re not ready just builds more resistance.
I worked with a Year 5 boy who’d refused to read anything for six months. His previous school had pushed and pushed. When I backed off and said “when you’re ready,” he tested me for three weeks. Then one day he picked up a book. Just like that. He needed to know it was his choice, not another thing adults were forcing on him.
❌ “Everyone else is on chapter three already”
✅ “You’re exactly where you need to be”
Why I stopped: Comparison is poison. Especially for struggling readers who are already hyper-aware that they’re “behind.”
“Everyone else is on chapter three” tells a child: you’re failing. You’re slow. You’re not keeping up. Even if I say it gently, even if I mean it as encouragement to catch up, what they hear is: you’re not good enough.
What works better: “You’re exactly where you need to be” removes comparison entirely. It tells them their pace is fine. Their progress is fine. They don’t need to be anyone else.
I also use: “We’re not racing anyone else” or “Your journey looks different, and that’s okay.”
This one’s politically fraught in schools because we’re supposed to have standards and benchmarks and “expected progress.” But I’ve never seen comparison motivate a struggling child. I’ve only seen it shut them down.
What Changed When I Changed My Language
Here’s what I noticed after I started being more careful with my words:
Children tried more. When they weren’t bracing for judgment, they were willing to have a go.
They asked for help. Instead of hiding when they didn’t understand, they’d actually tell me: “I’m stuck” or “This bit’s too hard.”
They stopped apologizing. I hadn’t realized how often children were saying “sorry” – sorry for not knowing a word, sorry for needing help, sorry for existing in my classroom. When I changed my language, the apologies decreased.
They were kinder to themselves. I’d hear them using the same phrases I used: “My brain’s not there yet today” instead of “I’m so stupid.”
And honestly? I became a better teacher. Because I had to think harder about what was actually happening instead of defaulting to empty phrases.
A Note on Perfectionism
I’m not perfect at this. I still sometimes slip into old patterns, especially when I’m tired or rushed. I’ve absolutely said “just sound it out” in the past few months because it’s a reflex and reflexes are hard to break.
But I notice now. And I correct myself. “Sorry, that wasn’t helpful. Let’s try this instead…”
The children notice when I do that. They notice that even teachers make mistakes and can recover from them. That’s worth something too.
If You’re a Parent Reading This
You don’t have to get it perfect either. You don’t have to police every word that comes out of your mouth. But if you notice your child tensing up when you say certain things, or shutting down, or suddenly needing the toilet, it might be worth examining what you’ve just said.
Are you accidentally implying it should be easy? Are you comparing them to siblings or classmates? Are you expressing frustration that they can’t do something that seems simple to you?
It’s not about blame. It’s about noticing. And then adjusting.
Because children who struggle with reading don’t need perfect parents or perfect teachers. They just need adults who are willing to see them clearly and speak to them with respect.
Even when reading is hard. Especially when reading is hard.
About the Author
Sarah Mitchell has taught special educational needs in UK primary schools for over 20 years, specializing in literacy support for neurodivergent learners. She’s worked across mainstream inclusion, specialist provisions, and one-to-one interventions with children aged 5-13. Sarah is particularly passionate about finding age-respectful literacy materials for older struggling readers – the students she calls “the invisible middle” who are too old for phonics readers about cats but still need systematic decoding practice. When she’s not in the classroom, she consults with edtech companies developing tools for diverse learners and writes about practical, shame-free approaches to literacy intervention. Sarah lives in Brighton with her partner, two teenagers, and an elderly rescue cat who enjoys sitting on her marking.
