The world isn’t against me because I stutter

For most of my life, I didn’t have a name for the way I spoke; all I knew were the silence that followed when I tried to and the strange looks that came after.

I remember the last time I tried to find a name for it. After seven intense days of voice analysis with my second speech therapist, she told me she can’t help me anymore and that I should just keep doing her exercises and hope for the best. Then she wrote me a three-line diagnosis on an A4 sheet. I went home and cried.

It felt like every time I reached out for help or support, people eventually gave up on me. I still didn’t find the answers to my questions. What was happening to me while speaking? And why couldn’t I speak like everybody else?

It wasn’t until the YE25 program in Germany that I finally learned the way I speak is called ‘stuttering’.

The prose I wrote below is my journey in a few words:

I’ve always felt that there’s no place in this world for me to speak.

In my mind, thoughts take shape clearly, and I repeat them endlessly, afraid I might forget them.

There’s a sense of safety in that — I believe that if I can say the words perfectly in my head, then surely I’ll be able to say them out loud.

But when I try, my mouth opens and no sound comes out. My jaw tightens, I forget how to breathe for a few seconds, and panic takes over. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. Why does everything feel so easy in my mind but impossible in reality? Am I the one standing in my own way? Or do I simply expect too much of myself?

Then the memories return.

My mother telling me she doesn’t know where I’ll end up in life because I don’t speak properly.

My father looking at me, confused, telling me he can’t understand what I’m saying.

All those people who, after realizing I couldn’t get a single word out, gave up on hearing my voice and turned their attention elsewhere.

The teachers who never asked me to speak in class again, saying it would be “too hard” for me.

But how do others know what’s hard for me?

Why do they get to define that?

And most of all — why didn’t I ever fight back?

I never said, “Yes, I want to do what’s hard for me.”

Instead, I always said, “It doesn’t matter.” Every single time.

Yet with every refusal to listen, the idea grew stronger in me — that there is no place in this world for my voice.

So I stopped gathering the courage to speak.

I stopped opening my mouth, just to avoid those moments that would remind me once again that, to some people, I am not worth listening to.

Every time I wanted to speak but didn’t, I felt myself shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller.

It was as if the very act of staying silent meant that I didn’t exist.

All the unspoken words piled up inside me, and I began to feel the weight of them pressing down, making it feel impossible to go on.

So I started small. Whispering to myself when no one was around. Letting my voice tremble, letting it sound imperfect. It wasn’t about being fluent or clear — it was about being real. And in that trembling sound, I found a strange kind of strength.

For the first time, I spoke not to be understood, but to exist.

Each word became a quiet act of defiance against every moment I had been silenced.

In the real world, none of this mattered to anyone else, but to me, it was the bravest thing I had ever done.

Then one day, I was part of a group, and I noticed someone with a fluent voice trying to speak.

Everyone else talked over him anyway.

He swallowed his words, grew sad, and faded into the background like a shadow in the middle of the circle.

I felt the urge to take his hand and tell him, “No, don’t stop. Speak over them all — your voice deserves to be heard.”

And in that moment, I realized something: it could actually be me, the person who wanted to speak and didn’t. In a parallel world, even if I had a fluent voice, it wouldn’t have mattered.

The world isn’t against me because I stutter. The world just needs to learn to be kinder to one another.

I started speaking more, stuttering every single day. The world was hearing my voice for the first time in a long time.

Nothing changed. Nobody understood why I refused to be quiet. Why would someone speak when others can’t understand them?

Because I want to live my life too.

Because I have a voice, and this universe is big enough for my words to be heard.

“We have important things to say,” they said.

“Who decided that what I have to say isn’t important?” I asked.

“You’re wasting our time,” they replied.

“Then you can leave if you don’t want to listen,” I answered.

With every stutter, with every hesitant word, I felt myself grow stronger.

I realized that speaking isn’t about being perfect — it’s about existing, claiming space, and refusing to disappear.

And by speaking, I also make room for others to find their voices.

And now, I know there is a place in this world for me to speak — near those who matter, and within myself.