I began stuttering at the age of three. I remember reading a preschool report card where my teachers had noted my stutter. When my mom asked our doctor about it, he reassured her that it was just a phase—something I would eventually “grow out of.” He explained that stuttering often runs in families and is more common in boys. I was a girl with no known family history of stuttering, and, as it turned out, my stutter would stay with me into adulthood.
At that age, though, I didn’t really understand what it meant. I wasn’t yet aware of any physical struggle or emotional weight associated with speaking. I confidently participated in school plays and eagerly raised my hand to answer questions.
“Don’t let her read, she stutters!”
That changed in Grade 2. We had a supply teacher that day, and she asked who wanted to read a story aloud. I eagerly raised my hand, just as I always did. Before she could call on me, a classmate shouted, “Don’t let her read, she stutters!”
I don’t remember what happened immediately afterwards, but I will never forget the rush of shame and embarrassment. My confidence deflated. That one comment broke my bubble. I began to believe that stuttering was bad and fluency was good—that being accepted meant hiding the way I spoke.
Speech therapy
I began speech therapy, practised fluency techniques, and attended speech camp. Over time, I measured successful speaking by how well I could conceal my stutter, whether through fluency techniques or by avoiding speaking altogether.
Avoidance
Looking back, this marked the beginning of a 30-year journey as a covert stutterer.
Over those years, I became remarkably creative at finding ways around speaking. In high school, I danced for oral presentations. When I had to make phone calls, I sometimes spoke in an accent. Friends ordered for me at restaurants, and if I thought I might stutter while answering a question, I pretended I didn’t know the answer. Apparently, I would rather appear completely unprepared than risk getting stuck on a word.
At the same time, even those closest to me didn’t always understand my struggle. I tend to be more fluent with my immediate circle, so they often didn’t hear the stuttering I experienced in other situations—or see the effort that went into hiding it. I’ve been told, “You don’t stutter,” or “Just take your time.” Although well-meaning, those comments left me feeling misunderstood. What they heard didn’t tell the whole story of what speaking felt like for me.
Creativity
My career as a dancer and choreographer in Mexico gave me a way to express myself through movement. I could be creative, connect with others, and share something meaningful without relying so much on my voice.
But when I returned to school in my late thirties, hiding became harder and harder. There were more discussions, more presentations, and more moments when speaking in an accent—or breaking into an interpretive dance—wasn’t going to get me through.
Career
When I began considering a master’s degree in social work and a career as a psychotherapist, I was filled with doubt. How could I possibly do a job that involved speaking with clients all day, every day, when I had spent so much of my life finding ways not to speak?
I started looking into speech therapy again and researching stuttering and support. A Google search led me to the Canadian Stuttering Association’s website. As it happened, their annual conference was taking place in Ottawa that very weekend.
I emailed to wish them well and ask about volunteer opportunities. To my surprise, they replied almost immediately and invited me to attend the conference and help at the registration desk.
Transformation
It was the first time in my adult life that I had met other people who stuttered. And suddenly, there were so many of us. There were people who stuttered, their families, and workshops that spoke directly to experiences I had carried quietly for years.
People were stuttering openly. Their listeners gave them time and space to finish. Conversations kept going. There was laughter, connection, and so much to say.
No more apologies
I had spent decades trying to make sure no one heard my stutter. Here was a room full of people showing me that stuttering was okay, and I didn’t have to hide or apologize for the way I spoke.
Since that first weekend in Ottawa, I have attended four CSA conferences: Ottawa, Montreal, Kingston, and, this past August, Newfoundland. I have also had the honour of leading a somatic movement workshop, sharing the movement that has always helped me express myself with a community that has helped me speak more openly.
Last year, my daughter joined me and participated in the children’s programming as a stuttering ally. Sharing that community with her was especially meaningful.
Through these conferences, I have met so many amazing people whom I now consider family. Our lives have taken very different paths, yet we recognize so much in one another’s stories: shame, embarrassment, struggle, and the challenges of navigating a world that doesn’t always make room for the way we speak.
We also share stories of triumph, resilience, and immense courage. Sometimes that courage looks like standing in front of a room and sharing your story. Sometimes it looks like making a phone call, introducing yourself, or holding space for a person who stutters.
I speak all day now
Today, I am a psychotherapist and social worker supporting children and families in community mental health. I am also a dance instructor, a college instructor, and a stuttering advocate. The person who once wondered how she could possibly speak with clients all day now does exactly that.
I still stutter, and some moments are more difficult than others. But I’ve learned that using my voice and allowing myself to stutter openly can introduce more people to stuttering, increase awareness, and make something that is often invisible more visible.
I also hope that being open about this part of myself can encourage others to feel more comfortable being themselves—whether they are navigating neurodivergence, a physical disability, mental health challenges, or something else they have felt pressure to hide. Our experiences are different, but we all deserve acceptance, belonging, and the choice to share our stories on our own terms.
Approximately 1% of the world’s population stutters. We speak different languages and live in every part of the world. We are doctors, lawyers, nurses, teachers, caregivers, scientists, professors, authors, CEOs, presidents, activists, and actors. We are your colleagues, your friends, your family members, and your children.
When I think back to that little girl in Grade 2, eagerly raising her hand, I wish I could tell her about the work she will do, the people she will meet, and the community she will find.
Most of all, I would tell her to keep raising her hand. What she has to say matters.
Stuttering voices matter
Treisha Dinsdale, MSW (University of Toronto), is a mental‑health professional, Registered Early Childhood Educator, and dance educator with 20 years’ experience supporting children and families. She integrates trauma‑informed, neurodiversity‑affirming, and expressive‑arts frameworks to foster mental wellness. Treisha champions spaces where children feel seen, heard, and empowered to embrace their identities.