Life is a telenovela
no I don't stutter
Maybe you’ve heard me speak. Maybe we’ve met in person and if so, two things probably happened: either I sped up and lost clarity, or I slowed down and stuttered so much you could barely understand me. That’s completely human. If it’s your first time meeting someone who stutters, you’re adjusting—trying to hear the words, not the stumbling ones. I can’t remember exactly when I first noticed I stuttered. It’s just something I’ve become more aware of as I've started carrying more responsibility—even as a child—not just for myself, but for others. And through that, God has been teaching me grace. Every new space I walk into is another opportunity to speak up—for myself, for someone else. Still, I’ve treated my stutter like a sweater in my closet—one I avoid wearing because it’s Miami and it’s hot, but I know it’s there, staring back at me every day. So yeah, I stutter. And this is my story. I stutter in all languages—Creole, French, and English. The language may change, but I’m still me. The girl or should I say woman now that I’m twenty-six — with the same brain, the same rhythm of thought. I’ve heard it has to do with the connection in your brain—how words get tangled on their way from thought to mouth. But my family never saw it as a defect. I grew up safe and loved. Speech therapy wasn’t treated like a cure-all, and for that, I thank God. He opened my parents’ eyes early to see that I didn’t need fixing to be whole. The outside world, though, is a different kind of comedy. People either assume I’m incompetent or get extra empathetic, jumping in to finish my sentences. It’s like watching life in slow motion, and honestly, being a hyper-observant person, I kind of enjoy it. I joke with friends that life is a telenovela—different scenes, new plots, but somehow everything works together. Even the sweater you never wear. It took me two decades to realize that I am not a stutterer. I am a person who happens to stutter when I speak. At first glance, those two sentences might sound identical, or like wordplay, but they carry entirely different meanings. Calling myself a stutterer implies I choose to stutter—that I carry the weight of blame for something beyond my control. Stuttering isn’t a choice; I can’t decide where, when, or why it happens. It just happens. Identifying as a person who stutters means embracing stuttering as a condition, not a flaw to be cured. It’s simply part of my reality—a constant companion, like Dr. Bruce Banner and the Hulk, locked in a tug-of-war for control. I often lose those internal battles, whether I’m nervous, relaxed, or excited. Words can stick in my throat for seconds. Sometimes minutes, especially at the beginning or middle of a sentence. What’s fascinating is that stuttering isn’t common in my family. Only three relatives have had it: my grandfather on my dad’s side, a gifted storyteller; my uncle, a die-hard Argentina football fan, always cheering for the losing side; and my oldest sister, briefly as a toddler, the kindest soul I know. Yet I’m the only one in my immediate family who stutters. The outside world, however, is a different story. People hear my stutter before they see me. I notice their impatience as they finish my sentences or offer quick solutions to “fix” me. Those suggestions are well-meaning, but deeply annoying. So I learned to silence myself. I spoke in a lower voice, hoping to shrink. Or I sped through words, trying to outrun my stutter. The result? People forgot what I said. Or they didn’t hear me at all. But I’ve given up trying to control it. I’m learning to slow down, to take my time—because I will stutter anyway. Because it’s not my job to prioritize someone else’s comfort over my own peace. And If you ever meet someone who stutters, just listen. Really listen. Or ask us to repeat. The second time around is usually worth it.
Heart Call:
October is stuttering awareness month. But even if you don’t stutter → Let this be a reminder that you don’t have to sound perfect to be understood, valued and loved. Presence matters more than a polished answer.
Do you spend more time thinking about what to say
than actively listening?
In what ways can you let go of the pressure to perform (say the right things)
and simply be present with the people you care about?