The Man in the Arena

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. When you’re walking down a road, so serene, so tranquil, then all of a sudden one hits you.

After 10,000 hits you learn how to take them. Maybe they still hurt the same as when you were a child, but you can rationalize them better. You understand them, soak them in, and react with logic, not emotion.

Every punch helps prepare you for the next. You’re strong now. Confident. Able to take the punches.

But yet, THEY STILL HURT.

Especially when the hand is so familiar, so raw, and so real.

That night, I texted six of my closest friends who stutter. Within 5 minutes, I got six wholehearted responses fueled with empathy. My friends shared their stories, echoed with similar experiences and feelings.

These are my people. This is our fight.

I recalled one of my favorite quotes:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

-Theodore Roosevelt

And that same night, I got an e-mail from another parent of a client of mine. This one took a different tone.

“Thank you so much for helping (child’s name). She truly values her time with you and says it has been so helpful to learn more about stuttering. There was so much newfound knowledge that has helped her to come to terms with her stuttering and we are all so grateful for you.”

My head was swarming with thoughts. Where do I go with this? Should I be treating people who stutter if I myself stutter? What is my goal for these clients? Does my stuttering really impact my therapy? What is the message I am sending to my clients who stutter? Does it crush their dreams of fluency?

Is there a benefit to "walking the walk?" What has stuttering taught me? What do I want to impart to my clients? 

There is a divide, a distinction that we make between the professional and the client. It’s the medical model of therapy. We see the experts as a godlike warrior who will fix everything. 

My doctor is overweight. Several pounds overweight. I know what you’re thinking, “How can a doctor give medical advice if she’s CLEARLY UNHEALTHY herself?”

Because it’s more than that. She articulated my struggles perfectly. Her knowledge mixed with her bedside manner was exactly what I needed. She knows the journey. She’s not perfect, but she knows her stuff. I trust her.

During the appointment, I asked her how much a visit to the psychologist would be with my insurance.

“$30”, she said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes, I know because I pay it,” she said.

I smiled.

Perfectly imperfect.

No wonder we’re miserable. We expect our leaders to be perfect, creating impossible standards for our kids.

What if our leaders set an example of the beauty of imperfection?

I look into the eyes of that parent. My heart races and my eyes tear up. It’s the shame of knowing she doesn’t want her daughter turning into me.

I am the man in the arena.