PUBLIC SPEAKING

Living with a speech impediment

I spoke fluently until I was fourteen. One day my teacher asked me to read out loud, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe and speak at the same time. It felt as if the words were escaping me. My mum took me to an Ear Nose Throat specialist, but physically everything was fine. “Maybe she’s nervous,” he said. I wasn’t. I was a quiet, calm child. So the only explanation left was trauma.

Years later, I realised what it might have been — a comment from a boy that shocked me deeply. I still don’t know if what he said was true, but it felt like a betrayal. And sometimes the body remembers what the mind tries to forget.

How it shaped my life

Stammering changed the smallest parts of my day. I avoided saying hello or goodbye because I feared the moment my voice would fail. Ordering a drink became a gamble — I drank far too many lemonades because “Archers” rarely came out clearly. Once, I even typed my order on my phone and showed it to the bartender.

Phone calls were the worst. A recruiter once said, “Look, this is a serious company,” because I couldn’t get my words out. Another job let me go because they thought I wouldn’t sound “professional” to customers. I didn’t know then that this was discrimination — stammering is a recognised disability under the Equality Act.

Even ordering a pizza was a challenge until mobile apps came along. The phonetic alphabet became my secret weapon: “Hove” became “Hotel, Oscar, Victor, Echo.”

Taking Action

In 2007, I started an office job that involved calling customers. I was terrified, but I tried. My manager noticed my struggle and moved me to back‑office work. When I applied to stay permanently, she advocated for me — and won.

Eventually, a manager questioned my pay rise because I “wasn’t talking to customers.” I contacted my union, Unison, and they confirmed what I didn’t know: a speech impediment is a disability, and denying progression because of it is unlawful. The pay rise was approved.

My GP referred me to a Speech and Language Therapist. She described my stammer as a unique pattern — prolonging the letter “O,” splitting it into two sounds. “Hove” became “Ho‑oove.” Most people didn’t understand it, so I learned to adapt: say “Brighton,” or spell it out.

She later encouraged us to form our own support group. That group changed everything.

Learning to be honest

I began telling people at work that I had a speech impediment. Not apologising — just stating it. A colleague once said, “A person in a wheelchair doesn’t apologise for their chair.” That stayed with me.

When we had training sessions, others would read aloud for me. When I called companies, I’d say, “I have a speech impediment, so it may take me a moment.” People were kinder when they understood.

I also learned something important: When we hit a “red light” — when the stammer rises — we should pause, breathe, and start again. Pushing through only makes it worse.