My freshman year of high school, I stood in front of my agriculture class.  The assignment was to recite the Future Farmers of America Creed, a five-stanza exposition on virtues of the pastoral life.  About half my class had already completed it that day, and it was now my turn.

It took me ten minutes.

I started off strong, proclaiming with almost religious zeal, “I believe in the future of agriculture!”  Then a barrier formed behind my throat, blocking off hard consonants like p’s, t’s, and c’s.  Words that began with vowels weren’t much easier.  Each phrase was a severe effort, and I struggled through every syllable.  The chore was punctuated by a repetitive tick I developed to distract from my problem, my hand flicking the hair off my forehead like that was the reason I couldn’t get words out.  It wasn’t the reason, and it didn’t help, either.  The episode was observed by the entire class and videoed by my teacher, who showed it later to other classes as an example of how not to speak.  

The experience was mortifying.  When it was finally over, I sat down and looked at no one.  I have never failed at anything so thoroughly.

When I was in preschool, I developed a “repeat,” a speech impediment where the same sound is transmitted from brain to mouth over and over again until it eventually exits as words.  In everyday language, this problem is called a stutter.  It keeps me stuck on a sound until something – I don’t know what – finally gives way, allowing me to move ahead with a word or phrase.  This waxes and wanes in severity, becoming worse during periods of stress, fatigue, or strong emotion.  Or it can just choose to happen at inopportune times.  Some days, it is almost impossible to say what I want because a blockade keeps words behind my tongue.  Other times, words flow easily, making it doubly frustrating when a new episode begins.  

Stuttering has been with me almost as long as I can remember, but despite this obstacle, I have developed into a physician, husband, father, and speaker.  Stuttering has made me love and appreciate words all the more.  I want to share three things that helped me cope with the intent they will strengthen others who struggle.

First, rather than avoid talking, I took every opportunity to speak.  I am thankful for incredibly supportive parents, teachers, and friends who never discouraged me from doing so.  I failed a lot, but each time I failed, the frustration motivated me instead of crippling me.  I said to myself, “You know how to talk.  You have things to say.  You can do this.”  

I wanted to speak clearly, and that desire would occasionally push me into a phase of fluency.  This led me to compete in prepared and extemporaneous public speaking, give talks in church, and act in theater.  Frequent and persistent practice made speaking easier, and I learned to survive in front of audiences, even when I wasn’t my smoothest.

Second, I embraced the dramatic.  I discovered early that when I was trying to emote or exude energy, stuttering became less of a problem.  I practiced movie lines ad nauseum, using accents and pretending to be someone who didn’t stutter.  This helped me gain an appreciation for my own voice and its potential power.  I started to imagine what my voice would sound like when I didn’t stutter, and I imitated this best version of myself.  After a while, I became acquainted with my normal speech, and copying it became more natural.

Third, I recognized what stuttering said about me.  The most encouraging words were from a wonderful speech therapist who said, “You stutter because you’re smart.  You have so much to say, and your mind works so quickly, your mouth has a hard time keeping up.”  This helped me countless times, especially when teachers or peers would look sympathetically at me trying to push the words out, like I was either stupid or didn’t know what to say.  I always knew what I wanted to say, and recognizing I was struggling because I was intelligent gave me patience and courage to keep trying.

I thought stuttering would eventually go away, but it hasn’t.  There are still days it is very hard to speak.  But the practice has paid off.  I have learned strategies and skills I apply to various situations.  I breathe, slow down, and focus on the message rather than the syllables.  My vocabulary has expanded, and public speaking is now a strength.  

I used to think conditions like this were given to us so we could have something to overcome, but I am not sure about that anymore.  I haven’t overcome stuttering; I have learned to walk with it.  It is part of my unique self.  It reminds me of Paul’s “thorn in the flesh” (2 Corinthians 12:7) that encourages his dependence on Christ, and the times words flow smoothly are examples of Christ’s mercy.  

The “me” I love stutters, and that’s okay.  In fact, I am better as a stutterer than not.  It has made me humble.  It has made me appreciate communication and kind words even more.  I can’t say I adore stuttering, but I understand what it has done for me.  

Each of us has imperfections.  All of us struggle.  We think we do so in isolation, but obstacles and trials are the common lot of humanity.  Sharing those struggles is what connects us, and giving them to Christ is what empowers us.  Hopefully, I can be an example to others of one who persisted and achieved despite imperfections through the love of family, friends, and the Savior.