'I Have the Right to Stutter'

For most of his life, Steven de Jong (43) was judged for his speech disability. The result: shame, social anxiety, and missed opportunities. Until he discovered the stuttering emancipation movement. ‘For the first time, I feel free to express myself as I am.’

By Brenda van Osch / Photo by Brenda van Leeuwen

(Originally published in Dutch in Psychologie Magazine. This is a translated version, published with permission.)

‘Six years ago, when I got married, a childhood friend gave me an old cassette tape. We were about seven at the time and used to send each other messages, sometimes little notes, sometimes recordings. I listened to it and heard myself stuttering, relaxed and playful. Definitely stuttering, but also enjoying myself. I was cracking jokes and clearly not worried about how I sounded.

It made me angry to hear it back, because I thought: if only they had left me alone. Before concerned teachers and therapists started pathologizing and medicalizing my stutter, I had no issue with it. It was the people around me who freaked out. Teachers didn’t know what to do. When we had to take turns reading aloud in class, they would just skip me. As a result, I started to zone out, staring out the window and occasionally got a chalkboard eraser thrown at my head. It was pure pedagogical incompetence. If a child in your classroom has a disability, isn’t the first thing you do as a teacher to educate yourself, empathize, and build trust?

But presentations I had to do. The speech therapist helped me write out my text and marked it with colors and arrows to indicate where I should inhale, exhale, or “slide into” a word. I was terrified, standing in front of the class with those colorful cue sheets and all those kids staring at me. I believed the presentation would only be successful if I didn’t stutter in every sentence. Now I think: why couldn’t I have just given the talk in my own way of speaking?

My parents were urged to ‘do something about it,’ so I started speech therapy at five. I tried several methods, all focused on becoming fluent. Later I tried alternative therapies that promised to “cure” stuttering: crystals, tuning forks, complete nonsense. Friends and relatives would constantly send my parents newspaper clippings: ‘Have you read this? Have you tried that?’ The underlying message was always the same: you’re not okay as you are.

In high school, my academic advisor told me to pursue a technical career so I wouldn’t be hindered by my stutter. People were already planning my life: if he works in a lab, he won’t have to speak to anyone. So I studied environmental technology, even though I’m not a science person. My heart lies with social issues, psychology, and writing. In my third year, when internships were required, a professor approached me: ‘We’re really at a loss. How are you going to function in an office with your stutter?’ As it turns out, I found an amazing internship at engineering firm DHV, where the manager was completely relaxed about it.

'The moment I try, everything grinds to a halt'

Because of how others treated me, I developed deep shame and social anxiety. Watching my friends effortlessly chat up girls made me feel painfully alone. I was lucky that alcohol made me fluent after a few beers, so that became my way of initiating contact. Once the alcohol wore off, the stutter returned, but by then I could warn whoever I was with.

My wife has never made an issue of it, not even during our early dates when I still stuttered heavily. These days, I rarely stutter around her, our kids, or close friends, precisely because it’s allowed to be there. In that sense, stuttering is a confusing disability. If I’m on the phone with a friend and he says, “You’re on speaker,” I’ll start stuttering really hard. People often try to psychoanalyze it, as if it’s an anxiety disorder, but it’s actually a neurological condition. Something goes wrong in the planning of speech, in the rhythm of language. Because it worsens under pressure, it looks psychological. But the moment I try, everything grinds to a halt.

In 2007, I became a journalist at a national newspaper – my dream job – but I ended up feeling deeply isolated. Interns were immediately sent out to report, but when I said I wanted to do interviews, I was laughed at: “A stuttering reporter? Seriously?” So I edited other people’s work instead. I was also an opinion editor for six years. I planned themes and rewrote submissions into readable pieces. I was great at it and loved doing it. But I stayed invisible. In meetings, a colleague would sit in, and I would send in my input via WhatsApp. No one ever asked: what do you need to thrive in this job despite your stutter? Instead, every performance review ended with the same message: “Keep working on your speech problem.”

After fourteen years, I was burnt out. I slept poorly and was profoundly unhappy. That’s when I met my wife. She said, “You need to get out of there, it’s destroying you.” I consulted a lawyer through the journalist union, who told me I had to be realistic: after all, if you have spasticity, you can’t be a concert pianist. I thought: here we go again. I canceled my union membership on the spot. Around that time, I also saw a psychologist. He referred me to a speech therapist because if I could just speak more fluently, all my problems would disappear. Everywhere I turned, I ran into the same message: that as a stutterer, I had to adapt, or compensate.

“I have the right to stutter – how I wish I had known that as a child.”

Then I discovered The Declaration of the Right to Stutter, issued by UK-based stuttering organization Stamma and signed in 2022 by 82 organizations from 44 countries. I realized there was a global stuttering emancipation movement. That gave me so much relief and strength. I’m now working to establish De Stotterbond (The Stuttering Union), based on the question: what would I have needed as a stuttering journalist? An advocate who stands by you, speaks up for you, and educates your employer: not to take you off speaking tasks, but to allow you to stutter and grow like anyone else. I’d love to see more people who stutter in public-facing professions. To normalize it. Singer Miss Montreal is a great example. At the same time, I advocate for calling stuttering a disability because that activates the rights granted under the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities. People who stutter should be entitled to accommodations, tolerance, and the freedom to stutter – even in customer-facing roles.

Last year, I published a book: Please Don’t Stutter on Our Inclusive Work Floor. Together with Stichting Support Stotteren and Start Foundation, I asked 80 employers whether their vacancies were truly open to applicants who stutter. Their responses showed just how pervasive the stigma still is. Back in 2017, when my novel came out, I hired a speaker for book events. These days, I take the stage myself, and enjoy it. I run a coworking space in Hoorn, The Netherlands, and regularly call clients for whom I publish books. It energizes me. This past year, I’ve spoken more than I did in the fifteen years before.

Slowly, I’m returning to that relaxed way of stuttering I had as a child. Mostly because I’ve stopped giving a damn. Honestly? If I could sign a deal tomorrow for a life without stuttering, I would. Because it often puts you at a disadvantage. Research confirms this. People who stutter severely are often perceived as nervous or less competent. Others might talk over you or say: “Relax.” All sorts of emotions are projected onto you. But I think: I stutter, and you’re the one who’s startled. Now that I’m no longer judged by a boss for how I speak, I feel free to express myself as I am. The result? I speak more fluently than ever. Adults who stutter often work harder on their speech than anyone else. I advocate for them, for the right to stutter.

Last year, when my five-year-old son began mixing up a few consonants, we decided to take him to a speech therapist. That was a hard step for me, but my wife said I shouldn’t project my past onto him and she was right. I’m vigilant that he won’t be made to feel there’s something wrong with him. I talk to him a lot, on bike rides, at bedtime, and he talks our ears off. I praise him for that, so he keeps enjoying the act of speaking.

Of course, I still carry the scars of my past. Just now, someone stopped me in the street to ask how parking works here. My first reaction is still a jolt: I’m not just someone you approach casually, I have a speech issue. And now this stranger is confronted with that. These days, I can let it go. I tell myself: I have the right to stutter. I’m not responsible for how someone else feels about that. I wish I had known that as a child, that I’m allowed to exist, even when I stutter. That a day filled with stuttering isn’t a failed day. It’s just a day.”

Credits

Source: Psychologie Magazine, 30 May 2025

Translated and republished with permission from Psychologie Magazine.

Interviewee contact: steven@stotterbond.nl