A Workplace Scrapbook: My Journey With Stuttering In The Classroom
- 19 hours ago
- 5 min read
When most people graduate from college, the next item on their to-do lists is to find work. No matter the workplace, most graduates have to adjust their environment to fit their grown-up needs and starting salaries.
But in my case, I never left my surroundings to seek ones more appropriate. I never had to step into somewhere dauntingly new and deflect the intimidation. The classroom was and is my constant: the white canvas of the whiteboard, the bins that house that nostalgic “crayon” smell, the tiny desks that have seen it all. This isn’t an essay answering the classic, “Why did you become a teacher?” question, but rather a summary of how I rewrote my stutter’s narrative in the classroom, where most people who stutter (PWS) face their lowest lows.
How had I metamorphosed from a shy, frightened student to a loud, bubbly teacher? Well, my stutter and I had already been making this slow shift for twenty-something years.
I began speech therapy as soon as my parents found out that I repeated sounds and blocked. My earliest memories of therapy are rooted in preschool and felt like a child’s dream, playing all kinds of games during our sessions. At that age, I didn’t understand it as therapy. To me, it simply felt like a familiar visit with a friend. I entered elementary school with an individualized education plan (IEP) so that I could continue receiving speech services.
It wasn’t until upper elementary school that it dawned on me why I had to practice speaking differently, why I was pulled out of the classroom during read-alouds, or flip through a round of words in the hallway when nobody else in my class did the same. I learned that I stuttered.
The shame I began to feel surrounding this revelation shaped who I became. Stress can intensify the negative memories controlled by the brain’s hippocampus. As humans, we are prone to remembering our "failures” rather than our victories. I was the only person I knew who stuttered and at the time, I could barely define “wisdom.” As a result, I fell victim to this perception of life for far too long: a half-empty glass.
I sat at my desk in third grade, waiting for my turn to present. We were assigned to read a chapter book of our choice and prepare to answer a series of interview questions as if we were the protagonist. What was a star lesson plan for my teacher was something I thought would end me, something that made me repeat “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” There were so many situations where I felt like a life-or-death decision had to be made: Do I present to my peers and let my stutter play puppet-master to my shame or do I refuse and save myself the dread? I presented through the nervous nausea and lived to hear the pitiful applause.
Fifth grade witnessed one of my most significant turning points. I practically denounced speech therapy to my therapist. This isn’t to say that speech therapy can’t benefit people who stutter or that my therapist lacked the necessary tools. In my opinion, the strategies weren’t helping me. Again, I was ten and wanted an immediate fix. I wanted to talk as easily as my friends and teachers.
I wept in my therapist’s office in the middle of the school day, tears salted with anger and disappointment. I was told to get a drink and to compose myself. I hadn’t known it then, but I returned to that office with the invisible white flag of surrender. I could accept I had a stutter, but it didn’t mean I had to be happy about it.
And I wasn’t. I never talked about my stutter to friends or my family. I only ever mentioned its challenges to my teachers at the start of each school year. My stutter was placed into my own hands when I stopped speech therapy in junior high. I was shy, insecure, and doubtful about who I was compared to others who spoke with flowing fluency. In eighth grade, I stuttered through the worst presentation I would ever give. I barely spoke two words without stuttering. It was physically exhausting and forced me to retreat into a lonely place.
Fortunately, my supportive mother, who worked for the school district, acted as my advocate by co-creating a 504 Plan with my school’s administration.
Roughly a month after my presentation, I received a handwritten note from my choir teacher that said, “I hope to see that leader come back in you.” Apparently, my personality hiatus was obvious to others, even when it wasn’t to me. I faced the choice of folding the cards life had dealt me or playing them. I never wanted to cave to my stutter again.
I slowly found more footing in high school. I rarely ever utilized my 504 Plan and instead forced myself through exposure therapy. Sure, there were imperfect presentations and many days when I felt inferior to the others around me, but I refused to let stuttering define who I was. The COVID pandemic gave me the reset I needed to erase my old reputation and write a new one. I got to be me. I wasn’t just someone who stuttered; I was also a very bright student with a steady head on her shoulders. I spoke up when nobody raised their hands during Zoom calls. I led the dreaded group projects. I presented information that nobody else could find. Eventually, I realized that my abilities were outgrowing my stutter. I didn’t have the energy anymore to fret over something so small when my mind was becoming something so big.
This being said, I didn’t have any accommodations when I entered college. I dropped my 504 Plan and decided I could be my own advocate if needed. My stutter became so mild that I rarely ever mentioned it to professors. My largest victory during my time studying Elementary Education was becoming the editor-in-chief of my college’s literary journal.
I spoke in front of nearly fifty people during launch parties. I had a passion for writing and nothing was going to get in the way of something I came to love—not even my stutter. When updating Facebook about my writing one day, it was my elementary school speech therapist who commented something that evokes goose bumps each time I read it:
Even though her comment was cliché and has been said many times before to many different people, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. All of those years later, and here we were praising my words. My words! Why wouldn’t I want to stay in the classroom forever? It’s witnessed my growth from the very start. It’s a place that's seen me at my worst and at my best. I rewrote my stutter’s narrative at work by choosing to love myself, no matter how I sounded. Choosing to envelop myself in the arms of those who supported me. The answer is in the accommodations, the people with whom you surround yourself, the unwavering perseverance, the trust you promise yourself, and in the card you find up your sleeve and play when nobody (or everybody) is watching.
