My breath is the first to go, caught somewhere between the back of my throat and my Adam’s apple. Next, my tongue knots like a Burmese python determined to strangle itself out of existence. I open and close my mouth several times, impotently, the words I so desperately want to deliver refusing to budge until finally, they enter the world with the grace of a rampaging bull:

“I-I S-STU-STUT…...”

You see what I mean?

I stutter.

My self diagnosis is painfully simple: I am afraid. My mind is always overflowing with ideas, but what good are ideas when you can’t let them out - if a tree falls without a soul around to hear, does it make a sound? My fear has pursued me ever since first grade, when, sitting in my 1st grade “homeroom” - the teacher taught us hand raising, the universal sign language for “May I talk?”. When she asked a question moments later, my hand was the first to reach up and grab it from the air. The moment I opened my mouth, fifteen pairs of eyes painted a target on me, and in the unforgiving spotlight, I felt like I’d been injected with a paralytic. Blood cold, muscles trembling, my mouth refused to open even as a dozen potential responses continued to press at that doorway, desperately, like panicked people trying to escape a burning theater. And all around me hung the sound of deafening silence, thick and clotting, as I waited for the bombs of ridicule to explode.
I expected the disdainful scoffs and snickers from the meanest of my classmates. And they came. But it was the nicer classmates, with their pitying glances and averted eyes, which broke me.

After that day, public speaking was never the same again. Human evolution has ensured that fear is the strongest and most memorable emotion, and over time, the fear of public speaking came to define me. Instead of talking, I preferred to write, where my internal dialogue could pass unmolested into the outside world – my own Underground Railroad of ink, pencil, and paper. Eventually, writing became more than just a basic, alternative form of communication – it became a joyful form of art. But I could never escape the specter of speaking in public. Whenever I met new people or took another gander at answering in class, my mouth would once again dice my words into meaningless sound, and I would conclude, time and time again, that speaking out had been a mistake.

Rather fitting, then, that it should be a mistake that would change everything.

In the fall of 2006, I started middle school. The school’s name was built in the shape of a comb, with an expansive corridor for the backbone and side hallways – one for each grade and painted alternately in maroon and blue, the school colors – making up the tines. The curious thing is that each hallway had the exact same floor plan, and each subject occupied the exact same position in every hallway, which made describing specific rooms very hard. And so imagine my surprise when I barged through the door of room 225 (“just down the hall and on your right,” the hall monitor said) expecting to see the phosphor glow of the computer lab, and instead finding a speech club meeting in full swing and twenty-five speech club members staring at me with a mixture of surprise and annoyance, as if I had just interrupted something important. At the front of the room, a wooden stage had been set up, and a raven-haired girl about my age – Helen, her name tag read – was perched behind a walnut podium, looking at me openmouthed. “Wonderful,” I groaned – on top of everything, I had managed to interrupt her in the middle of her speech. A thousand apologies scrambled to the tip of my tongue, but unfortunately, my tongue chose that moment to play food-processor with my words again. Doubly embarrassed, I had no choice but to walk in, take a seat, and watch.

In the first few minutes, it became apparent that Helen was petrified. I found out later that it was her first, “icebreaker” speech; it showed in her delivery. She switched words, slipped spoonerisms, fiddled with the hem of her t-shirt, and did her best to hide behind the podium. But I didn’t judge. How could I? Throughout her entire performance, all I could think about was how much she reminded me of myself. I saw myself in her nervous fidgeting, her jerky, disjointed gestures, every staccato sentence, and especially when she finally finished, as I waited for the axe to fall, as it had done for me over and over again. Perhaps I should go and comfort her when this is all over, I thought.
But the axe never did fall. One by one, the other students rose up out of their seats. For a moment, I thought the meeting had ended, but nobody made a move towards the door. Instead, the other students began to clap, rising from a diffuse smatter into a deafening standing ovation that refused to be contained by the white-washed walls. I heard cheers, and saw looks of…was that admiration on their faces? I considered Helen again. With every moment, she was relaxing and loosening up, and then she began to smile, a beautiful wave of relief flowing from her face down into her bones. It was my turn to stare openmouthed, caught completely off guard as something completely unfamiliar took hold inside of my chest: hope.

I came back to that speech club the next week. And the next week. And the one after that. In time, I mustered enough courage to write and deliver my own icebreaker speech, which I butchered spectacularly. I was wildly applauded by everyone, hardest of all by Helen, who joked that I did a very good impression of a stalling car engine. I laughed, surprising myself in the process – a month ago, the same comment would have stung. We became easy partners, and she became a dear friend, my first real friend. We pointed out each other’s mistakes, shared strategies and speaking techniques, egged each other on when we had setbacks, and weren’t afraid to call each other’s bullshit. The other group members also became a sort of extended family. As weeks ran into months, older members taught me how to use hand gestures and even the audience to get our point across. The stage and podium slowly became a natural extension of me. But most importantly, I learned how to wield confidence, the ultimate sword and shield, and I finally realized that the only thing holding me back was my own insecurity. In the process, I was having so much fun that I didn’t even notice my stutter slowly slipping away.

After three years, the last week of middle school finally came. I had friends now, a wonderful group of people that had sprung into my life like spring daisies out of the melting snow, whom I never imagined existed until I found them, and they, me. My stutter was all but gone, not counting its one reappearance one April afternoon, when I asked Helen out on a date. (True to form, she called me on it after saying yes, but I still think I did rather well given the circumstances.) Most importantly, I was now the senior mentor of the speech club, and as such, was expected to give a farewell speech on behalf of all the graduating 8th graders at our final meeting. As I sat down to write the speech one night, I was surprised to find that I was unsure of myself again, albeit for a different reason. How could I ever thank the speech club for helping me conquer my greatest fear? How could I even begin to repay twenty-five people for changing my life? It took hours of pondering and several false starts to realize that I was asking the wrong questions. I began to write with a new direction. How could I inspire future Aris and Helens to overcome their fears?

The day of the final meeting came quickly – the weeks seemed like days, and the days, hours. Even when the day finally came, classes seemed fast-forwarded, and time itself, hastened. All too soon, I opened the door to room 255 and walked in, dressed in a tie and jacket. For the first time in years, I was nervous as I walked the familiar, well-worn carpet path to the front of the speech club room. My dress shoes thumped with every step, and my heart thumped with every breath. Everyone was fixed expectantly upon me, and for a second, I panicked, convinced my stutter would return. But as I set foot on the stage, the roiling sea of worry calmed into a perfect mirror surface, and I could suddenly see myself again. I was in my element now. I was in control. I took my place at the podium, thanked everyone for coming, and began:

“My breath is the first to go, caught somewhere between the back of my throat and...”