It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen her. During those years, failure gripped me and stuttering controlled me. The painful experiences of my stuttering haunted me and my future of being fluent seemed to fade away. I was afraid to see her again, ashamed to even show my face in her house again. After all she did for me throughout the years, the least I could do was show her speech therapy paid off, that I was finally fluent. No matter how hard I practiced, I couldn’t give her the fluency that she wanted, the fluency that I wanted.
So there I was, desperately going back to speech therapy in my last years of high school. I was desperate to find an answer. A few weeks before, I broke down crying in my room because I couldn’t be fluent in the safety of my own home. I was sitting alone in my room practicing my exercises looking for fluency but only finding my stutter. I don’t think I told anyone. Its experiences like that I bottled up and didn’t know how to express to others.
As I walked into the familiar walkway of her house, she greeted me with a smile and a hug. I was nervous in front of her, still trying to be fluent, still trying to show her that my speech has improved. We sat down at her table in the living room while her two dogs were running around, excited to see me. I was excited to see them yet nervous to be there. I felt the familiar cushion on the chair as I squirmed my way into the seat, the same feeling I felt when I first saw her in 3rd grade. Therapy was different at that age. I rarely thought about my stuttering; I was too focused on having fun and playing basketball, making sure I beat my older brother one day.
Before I knew it, the session started. I expected that we would do the same breathing techniques and work on the same stuff as before. Breathe in and breathe out, pause after you say the first word. If I stuttered on a word, I would have to go back, slow down and say it again. Breathe, slow down, breathe, slow down, breathe, slow down. Instead of working on my speech, to my surprise we did something entirely different. She handed me a blank piece of paper and asked me to draw how I felt about my stuttering. She left me alone with that blank piece of paper as she tended to her dogs.
I picked up the pencil and started to draw. Each and every stroke expressed an emotion I felt about my stuttering. At the end, I was surprised and afraid at what I drew. I was afraid of looking at my true self. I drew a person with a sad face and tears streaming down the cheeks. Of course, I drew me. I sat there staring myself in the drawing, starting to tear up. She came back and we talked about the picture and why I drew it.
To this day, I still remember how refreshing it was to let down and let go with my speech therapist. It helped me tremendously to finally be aware of all the stuff I felt with my stuttering. If you are a speech therapist or know of a friend who stutters, don’t forget about the power of just listening and being there for them.
