I used to do anything to avoid talking to people. But now I’ve stopped hiding my stammer
“Hi, I’m K-K-Kimi,” I say. I’m at an event attempting to introduce myself, but, as always, the introduction isn’t going well. Their response is painstakingly familiar. “Did you just … forget your name?”, the other person says.
My face is flushing. Should I laugh, and say yes? Retreat slowly from the conversation and pretend it never happened? Perhaps, I think, a nervous laugh will do the trick – just casual enough to conceal my stammer without making the other person think I’m strange.
While most people instinctively recognise a stammer, there is still a considerable amount of stigma surrounding it. In the rare instance a character with a stammer appears on screen they are the butt of the joke, untrustworthy or staggeringly nervous. In real life, politicians who stammer have always been been ridiculed. Although it is a condition affecting more than 70 million people worldwide, stammering is still notoriously misunderstood, including by those who experience it.
Growing up, my stammer was something I sought to hide. Instead of being honest with people, I spent an unfathomable amount of time over the years concocting rules to conceal my difficulties: only attending social occasions when there was a significant probability of somebody else being able to introduce me; never – ever – answering the phone.
Name badges were instruments of hope; “ice-breakers” would induce a feeling of impending doom. When I stammered on Zoom, the question of whether the connection was poor was unavoidable. And applying for jobs (of which nearly all designate “fluency/ excellent communication skills” as a prerequisite for success) was a similarly nightmarish experience.
I would endlessly rehearse interactions beforehand – and often still do – and I have a knack for being able to come up with a dozen permutations of the same sentence. I was always thinking 10 seconds ahead to substitute any word that started with one of my trigger points – anything beginning with “m”, “b” or “k” is almost guaranteed to trip me up.
But none of these methods tackled the root of the problem: a deeply ingrained aversion to telling people I stammer. This stemmed from the belief that telling others would make me vulnerable; I felt humiliated about not being able to get words out when put on the spot, and inferior to others who clearly coped better in such instances. A stammer can be a very isolating experience; it is, at its root, a sign of difference. Left untackled, it compels you to retreat from the outside world and to speak less. And for those who subvert the expectation that people lose their stammer in adulthood, communicating with others becomes more about managing it, rather than eradicating it.
In many ways, journalism has allowed me to find my voice. When I began writing, I repeated the same formulaic routine to conceal my stammer; I would write out two or three variations of the same question before interviewing someone to keep up the pretence. But through integrating regular social interactions back into my life – a phone call with a communications officer; a Zoom with a group of campaigners – I became more comfortable with stammering in front of others. It has been, I suppose, a form of exposure therapy.
Over the years, I have become accustomed to people’s impatience (to the person behind me in the queue for coffee, I assure you that asking for a “m-m-mocha” is considerably more difficult than it seems), or tendency to finish my sentences in an increasingly fast-paced world. But forging new connections and letting people know that I have a stammer during conversations has been freeing.
President Joe Biden once said that his stammer allowed him to develop “an insight I don’t think I ever would have had into other people’s pain”. And this – people’s lived experiences – I believe, lie at the heart of storytelling.