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The words wouldn’t come out. My fingers fidgeted under the table and my breath caught in my throat. Their eyes lingered on me longer than I’d like, and I could sense my colleague’s discomfort. I smiled and tried again, this time succeeding at getting the words out. But the heaviness of failure, of shame, lingered in my mind for days later.
I had always felt like a victim of my stutter. It was this black cloud, this monster living inside of me, refusing to leave no matter how hard I prayed to be left alone. My university professors never remembered me because they barely ever heard my voice in class. My mother gave me looks of pity and spoke over me when I stumbled over my words while speaking with family members. My friends looked at me quietly as I struggled to say the word “apple” or “immediately.”
My stutter started to control me, and I wouldn’t speak unless I felt sure it wouldn’t happen. I avoided specific words, especially ones starting with vowels. I suffered from anxiety and panic weeks ahead of planned presentations or speaking engagements. My life started to feel like a living hell because I was obsessed with speaking perfectly and maintaining a level of fluency I deemed appropriate.
But I refused to give up. I wanted to fight this monster and I wanted to win.
