My Story
I know what it feels like to grow up believing that school is showing you who you are — and to come away thinking you are not enough. Before kindergarten, I received speech and vision therapy. I was identified as gifted, yet I also struggled with dyslexia and ADHD. I lived in that confusing space where I clearly had ability, but I was still struggling every single day. I was not “behind enough” for special education, but learning was hard. Reading was hard. Focus was hard. School felt hard.
And like so many students, I began to absorb the story being written around me.
Lazy. Distracted.
Not living up to potential.
Not trying hard enough.
I hated school.
I barely graduated from high school. I did not leave feeling capable, excited, or full of promise. I left feeling defeated, unsure of myself, and disconnected from learning. When you spend years working as hard as you can just to earn a C, it does something to you. It wears you down. It makes you question your intelligence, your future, and your worth. How are you supposed to feel hopeful about your life when school keeps teaching you that no matter how hard you work, you are still falling short? That was my reality.
So like many people who struggle early, I had to reinvent myself.
After high school, I tried to find my place somewhere outside the classroom. I pursued a professional snowboarding career and worked on wildfire suppression with the U.S. Forest Service. Those worlds gave me something school often had not—movement, challenge, identity, adrenaline, purpose. But in 1994, I broke my back. In one moment, both paths—and the future I thought I was building—disappeared. I worked in the snowboarding industry, but I kept running into the same truth: without a college degree, I could not move forward. So at 24, I went back to school with no clear plan, no big vision, and no certainty about who I wanted to become. I just knew I had to keep going.
Because of my own struggles as a learner, I found history easier to connect with. It felt meaningful and engaging. Human. It was one of the first places where learning felt possible. That led me to imagine becoming a teacher. But even then, the path was not clear. I was still trying to understand myself. Still carrying years of shame from school.
Still trying to recover from the constant negative messaging that had followed me as a learner—the story I had been telling myself for years. So I kept searching. I moved through different careers and identities trying to find my place.
Suddenly, my life started to make sense.
I worked in the tech industry selling software, where I learned how to connect with people, provide service, build trust, and help others solve problems. But even with professional success, there was still a deeper question underneath it all: What was I really meant to do? That answer began to emerge in one of the most personal chapters of my life—becoming a stay-at-home dad. Teaching my daughter, supporting her learning, and being present for her development changed me. It awakened something in me. For the first time, education did not feel like a system I was trying to survive. It felt like a place where I might actually have something meaningful to give.
That experience led me into teaching—but even then, I struggled to find where I fit. I worked in preschool. Then first and second grade. I thought maybe I wanted to teach history. Then technology. Later, I taught cooking—and I loved it. I loved helping students do something real, hands-on, meaningful, and confidence-building. But when enrollment declined, the program was cut. And still, I kept searching. Then everything changed. During a professional development course in special education, I was introduced to The Dyslexic Advantage. Reading it brought tears to my eyes.
For the first time in my life, I saw the possibility that the very things that had been framed as my disability, my weakness, my problem—might also hold strengths. It was overwhelming. Emotional. Life-changing. Suddenly, my life started to make sense. The way I saw the world. The way I learned. The way I struggled. The way I adapted. The way I noticed patterns, thought differently, and moved through life. For the first time, I did not just understand myself through the language of deficit. I understood myself through the language of strength. And that changed everything. It changed how I saw my past. It changed how I saw my struggles. It changed how I saw my future.
That moment is what set me on the path to earn my second master’s degree in Special Education. I made that decision because I wanted to help students like me—bright, capable, creative, and full of potential—who are being crushed by systems that spend almost all their time identifying what is wrong and almost no time helping them discover what is strong. And the deeper I moved into special education, the more I realized how deeply broken that system can feel for the students inside it. When you struggle as a learner, so much of your school experience becomes about deficits. More testing to confirm what is wrong. More interventions aimed at fixing you. More language that makes you feel like you have a problem, a deficiency, something to manage. Rarely do students get a process that helps them understand their gifts. Rarely do they get language for what they do well. Rarely do they leave feeling seen for their potential.
That is why I created Strength-Based Learning Academy.
I know that feeling—because I lived it. No one ever really helped me understand my strengths. No one helped me build an identity around what I could do. I was measured, labeled, and evaluated—but I was not deeply understood. And when that happens year after year, students begin to build their identity around struggle. Around disappointment. Around the belief that they are less capable than everyone else. That needed to change. I created it for the students who are tired of feeling discouraged. For the parents who know there is more in their child than the school sees. For the kids who are bright but disconnected. For the learners who are working so hard and still not feeling successful. For the students who need someone to help them see that their differences may also hold some of their greatest strengths.
At Strength-Based Learning Academy, I use assessments, interviews, journaling, reflection, and structured strength-discovery tools to help students understand how they learn, what energizes them, where they shine, and how to move forward with greater confidence. This is not traditional tutoring. This is deeper work. It is about identity. Self-understanding. Advocacy. Confidence. Possibility. I want students to discover these things now—not when they are 30, 40, or 50, finally trying to untangle a lifetime of self-doubt. I built the program I wish someone had built for me. Because I know how painful it is to spend years believing something is wrong with you. And I know how powerful it is when someone finally helps you see what is right. I believe students do best when we stop asking only what is wrong—and start discovering what is strong. That belief is not just the foundation of my work. It is the story of my life.
Fritz Strasburg, M.Ed.
Founder, Strength-Based Learning Academy.
Master of Education in Learning, Development, and Family Sciences.
University of Colorado Denver.
Master of Education in Special Education Generalist.
University of Colorado Denver.
Bachelor of Arts in U.S. History.
University of California, Santa Cruz.
Licensed in:
- Elementary Education (K–6)
- Secondary Social Science (7–12)
- Secondary Technology Education (7–12)
- Secondary Business Education (7–12)
- Secondary Family & Consumer Sciences (7–12)