Pauses, Presence, & Perseverance: Learning to Speak My Truth

Alex Gordon

I grew up in a small town where my class size barely reached the low twenties. Life was

simple, but it was also a place where everyone knew your name—and your insecurities.

From a young age, sports were my constant companion. I played year-round, finding

rhythm, challenge, and joy in competition. Golf quickly became my favorite. On the golf

course, it felt like I had control, a place where my mind and body could speak fluently—

even if my words didn’t always follow. It was my grandpa who introduced me to the game. He was my #1 supporter, not just on the golf course, but also in life. He never missed a game; he was always ready for a conversation and taught me not just how to play golf, but how to approach life with patience and perseverance.

Because of my stutter, I spent much of my childhood hiding behind humor. I tried to be the funny guy, the one who could make people laugh so they wouldn’t notice the pauses in my speech. Self-doubt was a constant companion. In college, this fear followed me into the classroom. I was the quiet kid in the back, silently praying I wouldn’t be called on to answer a question. Even when I knew the answer, the thought of speaking in front of the class was terrifying.

Having a stutter can make parts of my career look different from the outside, because sometimes people mistake my quiet moments or pauses as uncertainty, even when I know exactly what I want to say. What they don’t always see is that I do have the answer—I just need a second to get it out. And while I may come off as reserved at first, I genuinely enjoy talking with people and connecting once I’m comfortable. My stutter doesn’t reflect my ability; it just means I communicate at my own pace. The people who take the time to actually talk with me quickly realize how much I bring to the table.

Over time, I’ve realized that being quiet and having a stutter has given me a strength: I am a great listener. People trust me with their thoughts and feelings because they know I create a safe space where they can be honest without judgment. My stutter has given me empathy, patience, and the ability to connect in ways that don’t always require speaking first.

Self-confidence remains a daily challenge. Introducing myself in social settings, ordering at a drive-thru or restaurant, and making a phone call often fill me with anxiety. Sometimes, it even affects moments with my daughters. I remember a night when my eldest daughter asked me for a specific book, and I told her, “Not tonight,” because I didn’t want to fumble through the words. She was visibly sad and I felt like a bad dad. This moment hit me hard, reminding me of how deeply my stutter touches even the simplest moments in life.

And yet, despite these fears, life has also given me sources of strength I never expected. Being a husband and father has changed me. Feeling the daily unconditional love from my spouse reminds me that I am enough. Seeing my children look up to me, not caring about my flaws, has given me courage I didn’t know I had. My family’s support fuels me through life’s biggest challenges. 

Even with a stutter, I have built a successful career defined by competence, consistency, and the kind of presence people trust. My leader sees the substance behind my voice—the follow-through, reliability, and way I show up—and that trust is something I have earned through performance, not perfect speech. My story is proof that communication is about credibility, not fluency, and that stuttering doesn’t limit leadership, respect, or impact.

The saying “The loudest boos come from the cheapest seats” is a phrase I repeat to myself often. The people who know the least about you often have the most to say. When someone only sees you from the outside—noticing the stutter but not the person—their judgment is shallow, like noise from the cheap seats. But the people who take the time to actually know you, to understand your character, your humor, your drive, and your values, quickly realize that the stutter is just one small detail, not your entire identity. Surface-level opinions don’t define me and the voices that matter are the ones close enough to see me clearly.

My life has been a series of pauses, starts, and stops—both in speech and in confidence. But I’ve learned that vulnerability doesn’t make you weak. And in embracing that, I’ve begun to find my voice—not just in words, but in presence, action, listening, and love.