Courting Courage

August, 2000 My uncle is leaving work to go home to his wife and newborn daughter. A truck driver is making his last delivery. The truck driver decides to run a red light. In an instant, my uncle is killed. He never got to watch his daughter grow up. He never got to grow old with the love of his life. We never had a chance to say goodbye. My dad stood fatherless and brotherless. There became a forever void in our heart. January, 2010 I get a text from my mother while in Belize. “ Your grandma has been diagnosed with Parkinsons." March, 2014 I get a text from my mother while at work. “We are moving grandma here. She’s not doing well.” April, 2014 We think grandma has Lewy Body Dementia. December, 2015 I’m sitting upstairs and I hear my dad talking about my grandmother’s decline to my mom: “She is all I have left of my family. This is it.” I believe that love and loss are intricately tied. We want to hold on to the on

It came to me like a bullet at full speed. I felt defeated - like my identity had been taken away. I sit across the table as my boss delivers the news. A parent of one of my clients has confirmed my worst fear. “I didn’t realize Courtney stutters. Shouldn’t she overcome her stuttering before treating others?” “I asked (name of daughter) how she felt about seeing a speech therapist who stutters. She said, ‘It makes me sad. I don’t want to grow up and still stutter.’” Navigating a life with stuttering is like going out into an arena every day where people are punching you left and right. When you're young, it’s hard to take those punches, so you may take a different route to avoid them, or just stay in your room with the doors closed so you never have to face them. But as an adult, it becomes harder and harder to avoid those punches. You get them when you’re least expecting them. W hen you’re walking down a road, so serene, so tranquil, then all of a sudden one

When I was in fifth grade, each person in our class had to read a chapter from James and the Giant Peach. Every day, we would get through a couple of chapters, going in alphabetical order by last name. A – G. I was safe. I had at least another week. G – K . It’s coming. Maybe I have another couple of days. Finishing K. Beginning L. How many L’s are before Luckman? Am I going today? But I can’t do this. If I can count down and know for certain I will go tomorrow, then I will “be sick” tomorrow. Middle of L. I am next. We are almost to the end of class and the person before me still has a few pages to go. She reads faster. Time ticks slowly. How many pages can the chapter be? Please let it be a long chapter. “Courtney Luckman,” the teacher calls. I sit on the bar stool and begin reading. There is immediate laughter, most of which the students attempt to stifle. But I hear everything. My vision becomes blurred as tears form in my eyes. I still can’t remember wha