I thought I was completely illiterate.

For 51 years of my life, I carried a heavy secret. When I looked at a page of text, the words would swim before my eyes, refusing to arrange themselves into anything meaningful. Letters flipped, sentences seemed backward, and paragraphs felt like impenetrable puzzles. I was convinced I was illiterate. My name is John Philibert, and this is the story of how I discovered I wasn't broken—just wired differently. The Invisible Barrier Growing up, school was a daily exercise in frustration. Teachers labeled me as lazy or inattentive. "Just focus harder," they'd say, not understanding that I was trying with every fiber of my being. Eventually, someone suggested I had dyslexia, which explained some of my struggles but not all of them. It wasn't just individual words that got jumbled—entire sentences, paragraphs, and pages seemed reversed, as if I was trying to read a foreign language written in mirror image. I developed elaborate coping mechanisms: memorizing what others said, relying on visual cues, and avoiding reading whenever possible. "Can you read this for me? I forgot my glasses," became my standard line. "Let me think about it and get back to you," I'd say when handed documents. These little white lies built a protective shell around my secret shame.

Music became my sanctuary. While written words failed me, melodies spoke directly to my soul. I could hear a song once and play it back perfectly. Chord progressions made intuitive sense in a way that sentences never did. What I didn't realize was that this musical affinity wasn't separate from my reading struggles—they were two sides of the same neurological coin. The Turning Point At 51, a series of coincidences changed everything. I had been struggling to understand a concept from the Bible during a discussion with friends. Frustrated by my inability to grasp what everyone else seemed to comprehend easily, I vented to a close friend afterward. "It's like the words are backward," I explained. "Like I'm seeing everything in reverse." My friend, who had been researching unusual neurological conditions, had a sudden inspiration. "Have you ever tried reading in a mirror?" I thought it was a joke at first. But desperate for any solution, I decided to try. We found a large mirror, and I held up a Bible page to it, expecting nothing. What happened next still gives me chills when I think about it. As I looked at the reflection, the previously incomprehensible text suddenly became crystal clear. I began reading—fluently, without stuttering or stopping, right to left—for what felt like the first time in my life. "I can read," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "I can actually read." The Mirror-Touch Connection That moment unlocked something profound in my understanding of myself. With my friend's guidance, I began researching and discovered "mirror-touch synesthesia"—a neurological condition where individuals experience the same sensation that another person feels. But my case had an additional twist: my brain processed written language in reverse. As I delved deeper into understanding synesthesia, other lifelong quirks suddenly made sense. I had always felt overwhelmed in crowds, absorbing emotions that weren't mine. Colors appeared when people spoke. Certain words had distinct flavors—"happiness" tasted like honey, while "melancholy" was bitter like dark chocolate.

Learning about mirror-touch synesthesia wasn't just enlightening—it was liberating. What I had perceived as a deficit was actually a different way of processing information. My brain wasn't broken; it was unique. The Creative Flood Once I understood how my mind worked, it was as if a dam broke. All those years of absorbing the world differently suddenly had an outlet. I began writing songs—not just a few, but hundreds. Melodies that had been floating in my head for decades finally found their way to paper, albeit often written in my own mirror-style that I could later translate. Since that revelation, I've written over 1,500 songs and nearly 750 new poems. I also revisited approximately 3,000 poems I had previously written but couldn't fully understand. Reading them through my new lens of self-awareness, I discovered depths and meanings I hadn't recognized before. My synesthesia gives me a unique advantage in music composition. When I hear a melody, I don't just hear notes—I see colors, feel textures, and taste flavors. This multisensory experience allows me to create music with emotional layers that connect deeply with listeners. "Your songs feel like you're reaching into my chest and putting my feelings to music," a fan once told me after a performance. What they didn't know was that I was literally feeling their emotions as they listened, creating a feedback loop of shared experience. Living in a Multisensory World Daily life with mirror-touch synesthesia is both a gift and a challenge. Walking through a crowded mall can be overwhelming—a sea of emotions washing over me from strangers passing by. I've learned to create mental barriers, imagining a protective bubble that filters the intensity of others' feelings. But the benefits far outweigh the difficulties. When I teach music, I can literally feel when a student is frustrated or confused. This allows me to adjust my teaching approach in real-time, creating a deeply personalized learning experience. "It's like you're reading my mind," students often remark. I'm not reading minds—I'm feeling what they feel, seeing the colors of their confusion or the brightness of their understanding.

The synesthetic experience of music is something I try to share with my students. While they may not see the colors I see when playing a G major chord, I can help them understand the emotional qualities different musical elements evoke. A minor seventh chord isn't just technically sad—it has a specific shade of blue-gray melancholy that carries the weight of thoughtful reflection. Embracing Your Unique Perception My journey from believing I was completely illiterate to discovering my neurological uniqueness has taught me invaluable lessons that extend beyond my personal experience: 1.What appears to be a limitation might be a different way of processing the world. For 51 years, I believed I had a deficit, when in reality, I had a different perceptual gift that needed the right key to unlock. 2.Our differences can become our greatest strengths. My synesthesia, once I understood it, supercharged my musical creativity and deepened my emotional connections with others. 3. It's never too late for transformation. At an age when many people believe they're set in their ways, I discovered a completely new understanding of myself that revolutionized my creative life. 4. Compassion begins with understanding. Now when I meet someone struggling with conventional learning, I wonder what unique gifts might be hiding behind their challenges. Today, at BigJohnShow Music Instruction, I incorporate these insights into every lesson. We don't just teach notes and rhythms—we help students discover their unique relationship with music, whether they process it conventionally or through their own special neurological lens. If you've ever felt that something was "wrong" with how you learn or perceive the world, consider that you might not be broken—just beautifully different. The key that unlocks your unique gifts might be waiting just around the corner, perhaps in the most unexpected place—like the reflection in a mirror. Remember: You are not your limitations. You are the magnificent potential waiting to be discovered.