Here's What It's Like Growing Up With a Stammer

I read a lot of celebrity autobiographies. I am fascinated by who they were when the camera wasn't focused on them, and at first I expected to find stories of trauma-filled childhoods, bullying, and prejudice. To my utter surprise, most of the books I read had nothing like that in them.

I realized it wasn't the story they wanted to tell. Some do spill the tea on their growing pains, but for the majority, that isn't the narrative they want to be associated with. At some point I started to wonder if I could adopt the same mindset. It's opened up a new level of awareness about myself and the world around me.

For as long as I can remember, I've always stammered. My uncle came to live with us when I was little, and my siblings and I learned it from him. They shed theirs before they finished primary school, but I stammered on. I was young and oblivious, so I never noticed that the way I spoke wasn't normal until I was eight years old.

I was caught in some shenanigans with my friends and was brought to the headmistress and when I tried to explain myself, she ridiculed me. That was the start of the many torments I endured throughout my life.

Six months ago, if anyone were to ask me about my life experience with this impediment, I would regale the person with the myriad abuses I've faced. From friends, family, and strangers. At school, at work, or in public places. I've had people stare at me as though I had the plague or treat me like I had learning difficulties. Kids would point at me, whisper, and giggle. I've heard unkind things uttered right in my presence. I've also had memories I've forced out of my consciousness because they are too painful to retain.

There were so many things I wanted to do, but “what would people think?” always resonated in my mind.

I won't tell those stories anymore because I have a better story of compassion. Of joy, awareness, and acceptance. And change.

Growing up, I had a confidence that stammering didn't erode or diminish. It had me putting my hands up in school, waving it with gusto so that my teacher picked me to answer questions. Not only that, I was carefree and boisterous, which eased the effects of the jabs from my peers. Really, smarts and confidence are all you need for a positive school experience. I had no trouble making friends because I'd let everyone copy off my assignments and tests.

However, adulthood smacked the sureness away, and I began to melt into my environment, pussyfooting around everything. At the university, I wasn't shy, but I kept to myself and tried never to attract attention. There were so many things I wanted to do—activities I wanted to participate in, offices I wanted to run for—but “what would people think?” always resonated in my mind, and that was how I robbed myself of a rich university experience.

I was so absorbed in myself that I became disconnected from the class camaraderie. Once, a friend told me that everyone thought of me as an alien because I didn't mix with them. I was so surprised. For so long, I had been drowning in self-pity and self-sabotage because I assumed everyone didn't think I was good enough. I didn't realize that I was missing some key ways my fellow students tried to make me feel comfortable.

Throughout my life, many people have been kind about my stammer. My peers at the university always accommodated me. In group presentations, they would give me the smallest portions, or they would whisper to the lecturers to go easy on me.

My siblings have never made me feel bad about myself, and neither have my friends, though I hate when they finish sentences for me. My parents’ ham-fisted attempts to force me to speak with fluency caused me a great deal of shame and pain growing up, but now, they no longer sigh unhappily whenever I struggle to get words out. They just behave as normally as possible.

So far, it's never affected my dating life. Once I braved it and asked a boyfriend what he thought about it, and he replied blankly, "What?" I guess it's because I stammer less than before. I watch a lot of TED Talks, and I practice fluency by copying the speakers.

Currently, I work as a nurse, and I do get furrowed eyebrows, sometimes mocking smiles when I struggle to get syllables out, but I don't let it get to me. I just think about my progress, and it uplifts me. It's not my fault, and certainly not my problem that the other person is insensitive.

I am working towards a hundred percent fluency, because I want a better life. Stammering really cramps my style; I can't tell a joke well, people judge me at first impression, I can't be vociferous or argue convincingly. When I try to rush out words, it seems like I'm having a fit. I also try to avoid public confrontations because the other person would make mincemeat out of me. Nursing wasn't my first-choice career—it was journalism. I wanted to report news on TV or do interviews, and I still do.

To all of you who know people who stammer, be supportive. Encourage them to love and be kind to themselves, and also strive to be better.

One of my high school teachers humiliated me by forcing me to conduct the morning assembly. Another teacher took me into her office and counseled me to always take a deep breath before I speak. I met a guy in his thirties with a debilitating stammer, and his behavior was really pitiful. It was almost as if he had no self-esteem. I was sure he had more people like my first teacher in his early life than the one who encouraged me.

It hurts to have words and dreams in your heart and not in your reality. Let us all be better.