Imagine not being able to sign a cheque, fill out a form or read a novel. Imagine living your life dodging a problem — terrified that one day your shameful secret will be discovered. That is what it was like for me living with dyslexia.

When I was at the top of my game, playing rugby for Scotland, it must have seemed like I had it all. But people didn’t know the whole story. Sure, I had this air of confidence, everyone thought, “Kenny’s really cocky”, but that was my defence.

In reality, I spent my life disguising the difficulties I had with reading and writing. I’d go to Scotland training sessions and the first thing I’d do was look to see if there were any pencils on the table. If there weren’t, I could relax. I wouldn’t have to write anything down.

I was 18 when I first found out I was dyslexic, and it was something I learnt to keep well hidden.

When I moved to London in 1996, I wasn’t scared of living in a big city or being under pressure to perform for my new team, I was scared about having to tell people I couldn’t read or write. I was ashamed. I wrote down my address and kept it in my wallet so that if I had to fill anything in, I’d copy it from there and hope whatever was being sent out would arrive. If a form needed to be filled in I’d send it to my mum and she would do it. I told my flatmates that if they dealt with the bills, that would cover their rent. I had ways of getting round everything.

It was one of my former teachers who realised that I had dyslexia. Up until then I’d just been branded as the thick, stupid farmer’s son.

Until I was five years old, I was just like every other kid. Then I got to the stage of thinking, “Why are the rest of the class learning these new things and I’m not?” Every day at school I got that horrible achy feeling in my stomach. I clearly remember one occasion when I said to the teacher: “Read out the questions; I think I can give you the answers.” She didn’t think I’d be able to do it, so she pulled me up in front of the class. I got nine right out of 10. Two minutes later I found myself standing outside the classroom because I’d made the teacher look stupid.

I can’t tell you any of the great things about school because I can’t remember there being any. All I remember is sport. That’s what saved me. It was something I’d get a pat on the back for. You need praise at a young age and when I was in the classroom I never got any.

After discovering I was dyslexic, I decided to work hard. The first book I ever read was Lassie. I was 18 years old and it took me a year to complete. By the end of it I thought, “I can’t do this any more, I’ve had enough.”

The turning point came after watching a television documentary about Wynford Dore, the businessman who pioneered dyslexia, dyspraxia and attention deficit therapy (DDAT) after his dyslexic daughter became suicidal. The therapy involves undertaking six-week blocks of different exercises, spread over a year, with the aim of stimulating a part of the brain called the cerebellum.

Research suggests that poor development or damage to the cerebellum can impair development of the language skills necessary for learning to read and write, but it doesn’t affect intelligence.

After watching the programme, my wife, Gabby, said to me: “You’ve got to overcome this.” She was aggressive about it, telling me: “You always prove people wrong if they say you can’t do something.” I burst out crying. Not as the 30-year-old man, but as the six-year-old boy inside. I was still reluctant, even putting Gabby’s name on the application form, but eventually I decided to commit to the programme.

The first six weeks were really hard. I’d ask myself: “Why am I spinning around? Why am I on a wobble board? Why am I juggling?” And I wasn’t playing well either. After six weeks I went to Wynford and told him I was going to have to give it up. He convinced me to keep going and a week later it was like somebody had turned the light on.

My rugby went from zero to 100%, it was unbelievable. My coach said: “I don’t know what you’re doing, but there’s a massive difference in you as a person and your playing is so much better.” And of course Gabby saw a lot of changes in me too.

There’s a one in four chance of a child of a dyslexic being dyslexic, so if either of our children, Reuben or Lois, are dyslexic they can do the course and it won’t be a big issue.

I feel happier inside now that I’ve opened up and told people. Last week I spoke about DDAT at a conference in Edinburgh for schoolteachers and parents discussing learning difficulties. The response was amazing and there are thousands more stories like mine.

I met one young girl who was a dancer, but had low self-esteem because she couldn’t read and write. Having done the course, she’s now excelling in dance, is top of her class and has exceeded all expectations — her teachers can’t believe what’s happened.

And it’s not just young people. An 83-year-old woman went on the course saying: “All I want to do is read before I die”. She can now speak three different languages. I’ve also spoken to people who think it’s all a bit of a scam. One lady said: “Isn’t this just a money-making exercise?” I told her that I wouldn’t be there if that was the case. I’m not telling anyone to do it, I’m just sharing my experience.

Standing up in front of 300 people talking about not being able to read and write is something I couldn’t have even contemplated a few years ago. While I was on stage I decided to try and spell “cerebellum” for the first time even though I knew I might embarrass myself. Spelling it correctly made me almost more proud than playing for my country. My spelling and reading aren’t 100%, but the foundation is there for me to build upon. I’m more excited about my future than I am about my past and the six-year-old boy inside me is finally starting to catch up.

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