Everyone’s stuttering is unique. But nearly every person I’ve met who stutters has at least this challenge in common: to say your name. Why is it so hard to say your name and how can you overcome it? Here’s what I did. Unfortunately, it took me fifty years. Hopefully, you can overcome it a bit faster.
Why is it So Hard to Say Your Name?
I struggled terribly with my name. First, I couldn’t get out the L in Larry, then the St in Stein. For years, I thought seriously about changing my name. In the meantime, I would do anything to avoid saying my name — hiding behind my wife and kids, moving away from people I didn’t know, and so on. The lengths I went to avoid saying my name bordered on the ridiculous.
Now that I’ve worked through my stuttering and I mentor other people who stutter, I have found that saying one’s name is usually among their biggest challenges. It’s pervasive. Nearly everyone I know lists their name as one of, if not their most difficult challenge.
Why is this? Why is it so hard to say your name? There are no definitive answers, of course, but I believe there are two possible answers that make sense:
You can’t substitute words. Your name is your name and you can’t pick any other words, unless you go through the legal process of changing your name. (Yes, I’ve met people who have done this.)
Your name is a deeply personal representation of you. It’s who you are. This seems to raise the stakes in saying those two words.
Saying your name is like being backed into a corner, because you can’t substitute words — you have to say those two words (your first and last name). At the same time, it’s as if you have a spotlight shining on you, because your name is such a personal reflection of who you are.
In the mind of a person who stutters, the stakes are enormous (the personal reflection) and there’s no wiggle room (you must say your name, no other words will do). All of that adds up to a stuttering nightmare.
How I Learned to Say My Name
I thought saying my name was my most difficult stuttering challenge. As such, I placed it at the top of my hierarchy of challenges.
It took me about a year-and-a-half to ascend my hierarchy. During that time, I relearned to speak with Breathe, Emphasize, Phrase (BEP) and addressed so many psychological challenges that I essentially retrained my brain. Now, it was time to address the challenge at the top of my hierarchy: To say my name.
Saying my name was such a challenge that I created my own hierarchy just for that purpose.
I had already mastered the challenge of answering my phone. The phone would ring, I would exhale, smile, take a full breath and speak on the exhale: Larry Stein. I had that protocol down as well as a professional basketball player shooting free throws. I said it the same way every time, step by step, so well that I didn’t even think about it — it was as automatic as Breathe, Emphasize, Phrase (BEP).
As I thought about how I could say my name consistently in personal interactions, I realized that I had to execute another major mindset shift. No longer could my name emotionally charged, I had to view it as just another phrase. In my mindset of living phrase to phrase, saying my name was just another phrase. This was a hugely positive mindset shift for me.
Even with this mindset, I knew saying my name would be a tremendous challenge. It’s not easy to overcome 50 years of fear and failure.
Ready for Prime Time
I turned to my Small Steps strategy, and as usual, started with the easiest situations first: little kids, old people, phone calls to restaurants, hotels and hardware stores, the list went on and on. Essentially, I introduced myself to anyone with ears. Even if it was a little ridiculous to say my name (even if the other person knew my name), I did it, just to get used to saying it and build a habit of success in doing so.
By the time I felt I was ready to introduce myself to adults in person, I had introduced myself in easier situations a zillion times. Still, I wasn’t totally confident. Of all the steps in all the hierarchy situations I encountered to date, this was the biggest leap, even though it was barely a leap at all.
In truth, I had exhausted all the possible steps before this; introducing myself to adults was simply the next obvious step in a natural progression. It was the only thing left in my hierarchy and I was running out of different ways to practice. It was time to take that leap, however small it actually was.
Fortunately, I had the ideal circumstance for making introductions. I had just joined a synagogue and I only knew a few of the 150-200 people who came to the weekly lunch after Saturday morning services. It was perfect. I could introduce myself in rapid fire repetition and build momentum that could carry me forward. That is, if I could do it.
The First Introduction
I looked around the room for the friendliest face I could find. As I was about to make my first introduction, yet another destructive thought popped into my mind: I noticed that I feared saying my name to this person. I couldn’t have picked a friendlier face and she was about half my size, but still, I was hesitating. The decades of failure still loomed large, overshadowing all of the true progress I had made.
Concerned that this thought would sabotage my experiment, I pulled back from the introduction and planned my approach. As usual, I decided to do the opposite. I had to make her even friendlier. Ridiculously friendlier. It was time to reach into my imagination.
I imagined that I would feel warm rays of light emanating from her face and see her smile, even if she wasn’t. With a healthy dose of imagination, this friendly face now bubbled with friendliness. I smiled, reached out my hand, and said, “I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Larry Stein.” One done!
Okay, so I snuck in some filler words at the last moment — I don’t think we’ve met — but I did it: I introduced myself to an adult stranger!
I was 57 years old and that may have been the first time in my life that I voluntarily introduced myself to a stranger. My life was about to change.
Confident at Last
Encouraged, I looked around for the next friendliest face and introduced myself to her. Again, victory! That day, I introduced myself to about seven or so of the friendliest faces in the room. You’ll notice they were all women; I always found it easier to speak with women.
That week, I continued to introduce myself to anyone I could find in preparation for the next Saturday lunch after services. Saturday came and once again, I scoured the room for the friendliest female faces I could find, used my imagination to make them even more friendly and nailed another seven or so introductions.
By the third week, I was ready to introduce myself to men. I warmed up with a few introductions to women, then looked for the friendliest male faces I could find. With the help of my imagination, I smiled and went for my first introduction. Success! I did another. And another. I couldn’t stop. It was intoxicating.
Soon, I reached out my hand, smiled, and simply said, “Larry Stein.” No filler words, no imagination. Just me. Larry Stein. Confident at last.
A weight fell from my shoulders, the sun shined bright and birds sang. It was done. I was free.
The Surprise Gift in Saying My Name
Being able to say my name changed everything for me. No, I wasn’t perfectly fluent and I’m not perfectly fluent now. Fluency isn’t the end game. At least, not mine.
Saying my name meant something much more important: No longer would I have to hide from any situation. I could just be me.
Think of it: I was 57 and for once in my life, I was free. I had broke free from stuttering. I was free to be me.
Being free to speak and say anything I wanted meant more to me than I could have possibly imagined. It was liberating. Empowering.
I didn’t realize how much I was hiding or the costs involved in that charade. Now I do. It feels good to be authentic, real. The real me.
I have found a lot of surprises in my stuttering journey, but this may be the biggest of them all: To be the real me.
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