I grew up with speech impediments – a lisp, the inability to pronounce the ‘r’ sound far past the cute toddler stage, and the worst — a stutter. Throughout my elementary school years, I attended speech therapy, leaving class twice a week to the curiosity of my classmates and entering into the small, dimly lit room with the other speech impeded children. For years, with gritted teeth of frustration, I attended these classes, and slowly, I fixed the ’s’ and eventually, the ‘r’ too. No longer was my name ‘Schewa Schakeena Mawschall’. However, the stutter persisted. At the age of ten, a few years after my parents’ divorce, my mother, four siblings, and I moved to a nearby suburb, and I reluctantly switched elementary schools for 5th grade. The change was not welcome, however, my new speech therapist took a completely different approach to dealing with my stutter than that of my previous school. Instead of sitting alone in a cubicle recording myself speaking using some obsolete device that required a magnetic card, I was told to simply tell stories to the other students in the speech class. Sure, it was nerve-racking at first, but being surrounded by students who all suffered from various speech related issues slightly softened my nerves. The best part was, they actually enjoyed my stories. I made more progress in that single year than I ever had, and I vowed not to take speech therapy in middle school. I couldn’t bear it. Still, my mother spoke to the speech therapist at the middle school and received some books from him; books that took me years to even open. Throughout my middle school years, the stutter was still a problem; some days were worse than others for speaking. At times, my nerves got the best of me for weeks at a time and every word took 5 or 6 tries, with the constant, “stop and take a breath” from mother, which, though well-intentioned, infuriated me. I had things to say, and I didn’t NEED to pause. No one else needed to – why should I?

In high school, with various family issues and a step father I was less than fond of, my stutter got worse. ’S’ words were the worst, and unfortunately, my name starts with ’s’. The thing I dreaded more than anything was someone asking me my name. It was a familiar scenario, “Hi, my name is ______.” “Hello, I’m S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s” “Um, did you forget your own name?” with a chuckle. I never got used to the mortification, but after a while, interrupted with, “No, I have a stutter,” flatly. I didn’t say it to make the other person feel like a jerk. I said it to clear the air so that there wouldn’t be the awkward wonderment of why everything I said took so long. That in itself actually made things slightly easier. The stutter could be expected. Then the person would know there wasn’t something mentally wrong with me. We could move on, continue with the conversation. Yes, the ‘Oh, I have a stutter sometimes, too” or “You must have loved that movie The King’s Speech” got old, but I tried to remember that people were generally well intentioned, and just trying to relate. 

I used to think (in all my privilege,) that the only thing holding me back in life was my stutter. I hated it. I hated how it was perceived. I hated the way it sounded. I hated the way I felt, and the way I dreaded speaking at all. Then, one day, in high school, I found those books from the middle school speech therapist in my closet, and I read one. To my surprise, there was no mention of a magic cure, or some device to fix my problem. The book had stories (and videos) of young people who stuttered. And the answer – just talk anyway. I was amazed. I had spent years refraining from raising my hand in class, pleading ignorance in hopes of not having to speak aloud to spare myself the embarrassment of laughter from my classmates; years changing my word choice to avoid the ones that routinely made me falter. And all it told me to do was to talk, even with the knowledge of each and every word that would come out in a stammer. Just decide that what you have to say is more important than the embarrassment. The simplicity was profound. 

And I tried it. Along the way, I also decided that at a certain age, laughing at someone for their speech impediment made a person less than enviable; in fact, I assumed that their parents must never have taught them better values, and felt sorry for how they would turn out as a result. Really, in a high school honors class,  you’re laughing at the girl for her stammer? Please grow up before college, lest you represent the generation I share in with you. 

Using this method, I made a lot of progress, and met people who, years later, told me that they never knew I had a stutter. I stopped fearing introducing myself, and instead, anticipated it, gave myself a rhythm, went over it in my head, and chose to calm down instead of tense up at the thought. Of course, the stutter came out here and there, and I didn’t exactly enjoy speaking aloud in front of a crowd, but I was willing to do it. I was willing to drown out the laughter and remind myself of the duty I had to speak, whether it be for a school presentation or because my thoughts were actually important. 

Then, in college, I had an eye-opening experience. I was in a junior level international relations course. The class had about 120 students in it, most of them ‘taking notes’ on their laptops. As we spoke about taxation and the arguments about entrepreneurial incentives, the professor referenced a recently published article by Warren Buffett, and asked the class to see if they could find it. I happened to be the first to do so, and raised my hand. To my surprise, the professor asked me to read it on the spot. I did, knowing I’d stammer, but unwilling to back out – I was simply too old for that. So I read, and I stammered, and the point Warren Buffett was trying to make was made. I brushed off the stress and continued to take notes. When class ended, a boy approached me. He was young, slender, wore black clothes, and held himself with little apparent confidence. He told me that he couldn’t believe that I had read despite my stutter. He also had a stutter that was very obvious. I could see that he was still in the phase I had been in in elementary and middle school. He still didn’t raise his hand in class. He still avoided conversations and encounters where he would be prompted to speak. I introduced myself and told him to walk with me. I explained that we were technically adults now, and that even though having a stutter sucks, that it can’t be an excuse to not do this and not do that forever. We all have things to say, and as we grow up we enter into an exceedingly competitive world. If we don’t speak up, no one will wait for us. No one will hold our hand and tell us to take a pause. It was time to decide to speak anyway, stuttering the whole time if need be. Just get the words out. Hear yourself. Let others hear you. It’s never going to sound perfect, but you’re going to make a sound, and that’s what’s important. 

We walked for about a half hour before parting ways. He seemed inspired, and I genuinely hoped he would heed my advice and decide to speak up more. I was left in a state of confusion, surprise, angst. How could I have assumed that everyone who had speech problems received speech therapy, had supportive parents, and that someone in the equation felt strongly enough to encourage them? How ignorant I had been in my privilege, that others would not be able to bear their own silence for so long. 

I have never forgotten that young man. He opened my eyes to how far fear can take us down an undesirable path. I’m grateful that he approached me, and that we talked – that he was willing to talk – that he felt comfortable knowing that I shared his affliction. 

Of course, when it comes to any kind of therapy, different methods work for different people, but I am a firm believer in being heard. The U.S. is a country that was founded on free speech. Why let the time it takes to get our words out stop us from saying them?