Me as a Stammerer

“The human voice is the organ of the soul.” – Longfellow

I was an introvert growing up — afraid of everything. I’d hide behind my mom during movie fight scenes, flinch at loud noises, avoid conflict like the plague. Looking back, I’ve overcome many fears. But one still lingers: stammering.

This is the story of that fear — and the voice I’m still learning to embrace.

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The First Realization

I don’t remember exactly when I became aware of my stammer. Maybe it was when I heard myself speak in a video. Maybe it was when someone laughed. I was six or seven. My parents were always kind about it, doing their best to protect me from what they likely feared I’d grow into.

But the truth grew louder with age: my stammer wasn’t going away. And it wasn’t just about speech. It was about visibility. Vulnerability. Voice.

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School: Where the World Starts Listening

In school, friends joked about my stammer — casually, carelessly. They didn’t mean harm. But it hurt. Every laugh, every mimic, echoed long after the bell rang. I never responded. I smiled along. But inside, something small and sacred shrank every time.

Still, I loved speaking. I really did.

In 10th grade, I got to perform Mark Antony’s speech from Julius Caesar. I practiced obsessively. Recited it into mirrors. Pictured applause. When the day came, I delivered it without stammering. It felt unreal — a moment where I wasn’t broken, just heard.

That speech changed something in me.

It told me I could speak. And it also made me painfully aware of how rare that feeling was.

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Filtered Living

Stammering isn’t just about talking. It’s about thinking — constantly.

Every time I open my mouth, there’s a mental pre-check:

“Will I stammer on this word?”
“Can I replace it with something safer?”
“Should I just keep quiet?”

This filter never turns off. It’s exhausting.

Sometimes I hold back jokes I know would land, because the punchline starts with a letter I can’t get through. Sometimes I skip parts of my explanations because I can’t find a “safe word.” I speak fluently only to one person in this world — myself.

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Painful Memories

• Job Interviews: I’ve left interviews crying — not because I lacked the skills, but because I couldn’t express them. The words were in my head. I just couldn’t set them free.
• Recordings: Watching myself stammer on camera feels like watching someone else — someone fragile, uncertain.
• YouTube & Podcasts: I record 1.5 hours of stammering, edit for 2.5 more, and end up with 15 clean minutes. Creativity becomes survival.
• Acting: I love acting. I believe I’m good at it. But stammering turns every line into a minefield. I spend hours marking danger zones in my script and praying my mouth will cooperate.

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Missed Chances

In 12th grade, I was urged to apply for House Captain. Everyone — teachers, classmates — believed in me. But I didn’t apply.

Why?

Because I knew I’d have to recite an oath in front of the school. I couldn’t bear the idea of stammering during something so public. I backed away from a role I was ready for — just because of a speech.

In college, where English was the main medium, it got worse. I had ideas in class, but never voiced them. So many opportunities passed by, unnoticed — because I couldn’t break through my own silence.

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The Innovation Week Breakdown

One of my worst moments was during my first job, at Innovation Week. I had poured everything into a project. But on stage, my stammer hijacked me. I skipped key points. My thoughts scattered. I could see the confusion in people’s eyes. It felt like watching my own failure in slow motion.

For days afterward, I asked myself, “Why do I even try?”

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A Shift in Perspective

For years, I blamed stammering for all my missed opportunities. But now, I’m learning something else:

It’s part of me. And it always will be.

I still get frustrated. But I’m also starting to appreciate how this challenge shaped me — taught me patience, compassion, resilience. I’m no longer waiting to “fix” myself before I start showing up. I’ve started stepping into discomfort, intentionally.

I acted in a simulation training at college recently. I stammered. A lot. But I did it anyway. And that was enough.

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Moving Past Comparison

I used to look at fluent speakers with envy. What if I was like them? What would my life look like?

I don’t ask that anymore.

Now I ask: What can I build with the voice I have?
Even if it’s cracked. Even if it trembles.

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My Mother’s Words

One day, my mom told me something I’ll never forget:

“Maybe God gave you stammering so you won’t grow arrogant about your talents. You’ll always remember you’re not complete.”

I don’t fully agree with her. But those words… they’ve comforted me. They remind me that limitations don’t cancel potential. They just humble it.

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The Path Forward

Today, I want to keep speaking — not fluently, but fully.
I want to show up in podcasts, classrooms, conversations — not as someone who “overcame” stammering, but as someone who owns it.

Because my abnormalities don’t define my limits.
They define my character.

And that’s enough for me.