Courting Courage

A couple nights ago over dinner, I asked my friend, Tim Flynn, a speech-language pathologist and a person who stutters, if he had any advice for me just starting graduate school. Tim said, “Don’t become complacent within your comfort zone.” This came the night before seeing my first individual client and I was scared half to death. Truth was, I felt uncomfortable. I was complacent with stuttering. This was beyond my comfort zone. Something I’ve never done; something I wasn’t even sure I was capable of. We have imaginary walls that define our comfort zone. It feels good to live between these barriers. Within these walls we excel at our strengths and this space becomes safe and rewarding. But we often dwell so long in this space that we forget what lies beyond. Truth is – you can’t have courage if you don’t let yourself feel uncomfortable. “We can choose courage or we can choose comfort, but we can’t have both. Not at the same time.” -Brene Brown The situations

I walk into Rosh Hashanah services right in time to hear the shofar. No matter where I am in the country or what I have to do, I always make an effort to attend services in order to hear the shofar blow. How can such a small, awkward instrument make such a loud, beautiful sound? I read a line from the prayer, Untaneh Tokef: “The great shofar is sounded, a still small voice is heard.” This year at the National Stuttering Association conference, I had the honor of going up on stage when my mentor, Katie Gore, received the chapter leader of the year award. It was one of the most memorable moments of my life. When I looked out at the crowd of 700+ people whose lives have all been affected by stuttering, I couldn’t help but have a smile on my face for this beautiful community. From that moment on, I knew this was where I belong. Two months later, I am beginning graduate school in speech-language pathology. I look in the mirror before I leave for the first day of orientation

Two people sit across the table from each other. They are eating chopped food with their hands because they are unable to use their fork quite right. They indulge in a brownie. I wipe the crumbs from their faces. They look at each other with fascination. One has hope. The other has fear. One is 3 and the other is 82. The 82 year old is my grandmother who is steadily declining. Some doctors call it Lewy Body Dementia; others call it Alzheimer’s Disease. Whatever this horrible disease is, it has robbed my grandma of her personality, cognition, and language. “I just want my grandma back,” I sob to my mom. I don’t even recognize this person in front of me. My grandma is the strongest person I know. She made it through an abusive mother, watched her husband slowly lose the battle to cancer, and lost her son in a car accident. She battled all of this, but lived her life anyway. She bowled, golfed, and swam. She knew how precious life was so she never let a moment go wast