Everyone who stammers has a story. We each have our own journey, our own struggles and our own way of finding our voice. You Will Hear Me Speak is mine. It is an honest account of how stammering shaped my life: the pain it caused, the determination it built and the empathy it gave me for others. Those qualities became the foundations of my work as a trade union leader and public speaker. I am proud of that journey—not because it was easy, but because I refused to let the hardest parts have the final say.
Writing my story
From my earliest memories, I have always had a stammer. Writing this book has been deeply emotional. It has brought back memories I thought I had packed away for good, including some very dark times growing up. Looking back, I believe I was struggling with what might now be recognised as depression. Putting those experiences on the page has not been easy, but I wanted to tell my story honestly.
In the UK, we generally call it a stammer. When I was growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, I knew it as a stutter. Personally, I prefer the word stammer. I have often heard “stuttering” used negatively—an economy “stuttering along”, for example—and that language has never sat comfortably with me. Others may feel differently, but stammer is the word I choose for my own experience.
Growing up in Edinburgh
I was born at home in Edinburgh on 8 January 1968. But the Edinburgh of my childhood was not the city you see on a postcard. It was not the castles, palaces or festival stages. Behind that beautiful, wealthy city were communities living with real poverty. That was my Edinburgh: the place of my birth, my home for much of my life and a place that helped shape everything I would become.
Struggling to fit in
We lived in a block of six homes on a working-class housing scheme. It was social housing, money was tight and families were living on the breadline. Of the people in those six homes, three had a stammer: one adult and two children. I was a couple of years older than the other child. Stammering was part of my life from the beginning, but that did not mean I felt understood.
My mother was a lovely, caring woman who would do whatever she could to help someone. She looked after an elderly neighbour upstairs and was always ready to lend a hand. That kindness stayed with her until her death three years ago, when she had dementia. My father was very different. He had just left the army, where he had been a sergeant, when I was born. He tried to run our home as though we were soldiers under his command rather than his family. My experience taught me that being a biological parent is not the same as being a real father.
As a child, I struggled to fit in. I wanted friends, a place in the group and the chance to be seen as Gary—not simply as the kid who could not speak properly. Children can be cruel. I remember crying on some mornings because I dreaded going to school. I did have good friends, but even they sometimes mocked my stammer. Being the butt of the joke hurt, especially when it came from people I wanted to trust.
Speech therapy and school
I had several attempts at speech therapy, but I do not remember any of them helping. My first experience, at around six or seven, felt like a disaster. The therapist was a stern older woman whom I found frightening. Being taken out of class for those sessions only made me feel more different. Other memories still sting. When I was nine or ten, our class held a Burns Day poetry competition, with the chance to recite in front of the school. I was told, in front of everyone, that it was not suitable for me even to enter. I was sent to sit in a corner and do other work. Later, at high school, an English teacher made me stand and read pages aloud—not just a paragraph or two. It brought more mocking and bullying, and I remember the teacher seeming amused by it. What stays with me is that nobody asked how I felt or what support I needed. Reading aloud meant I could not avoid difficult words, yet nobody spoke to me about making that experience easier. I did not need to be singled out or humiliated. I needed to be listened to.
Home was difficult too
People have asked what my parents did to help. The truth is that home was difficult too. My parents were heading towards separation, and there were arguments, shouting and fights. I heard my mother blame my father for my stammer in front of me. As I grew older, I came to understand that he had not caused it. The tension certainly did not help, but it was not the cause.
My father left in October 1979, when I was eleven and had just started high school. In many ways, it was a relief: the constant arguments stopped. But my mother had to work three jobs to keep a roof over our heads and food and clothes for my brother and me. Even at that age, I decided I would carry my troubles myself. I took the ridicule and bullying, then pretended everything was fine. I could see how tired my mother was, and I did not want to add to her burden. My father was living with his mother, my granny, just two streets away, but I did not feel that my struggles at school or with my stammer were being addressed.
Looking for work at fifteen...
At fifteen, I was due to sit seven school examinations—the maximum available at that age. I had also shown a talent for art. My art teacher saw something in me and encouraged me to stay on, study at a higher level and consider university to pursue art and art history. It was a glimpse of a future I might have had.
But I could not face staying at school while the bullying continued day after day. At home, I watched my mother struggle on the money she brought in as a school cleaner. The country was in turmoil, unemployment was high and I wanted to earn something to help. So, as soon as I could, I left. At fifteen, I walked out of education with no formal qualifications, hoping to find work, bring money into the house and leave the daily bullying behind.
There I was: fifteen, without qualifications and looking for work at a time when around three million people were unemployed in the UK. In communities like mine, the struggle was particularly hard, and young people faced an even tougher start. I wanted a chance, but chances were few and far between.
My stammer seemed to be taking over everything
Finding work meant going to the job centre and applying for whatever was available. Often, before I could even get an interview, I had to make a phone call. For someone with a stammer, that could be a dreadful hurdle. Hundreds of people might be applying for the same job. Before I had the chance to show what I could do, I had to get through the fear of being heard.
Looking back, the next few years were some of the hardest of my life. I was struggling with my mental health, with unemployment and with trying to find my place as a young adult. Ordinary things could fill me with dread: ordering food at a takeaway, asking for a round of drinks or speaking to someone I wanted to get to know. I faced mocking from staff and other customers, and some friends did not understand how difficult those moments could be. The fear followed me into bars and nightclubs, into conversations and into the thought of asking someone for a dance or a date. Slowly, I withdrew. I stopped wanting to go out. My stammer seemed to be taking over everything. Work offered little stability either; I moved from one short-term job to another, often with small, family-run employers where my experience was poor.
Home still offered little peace. My older brother mocked and abused me over my stammer. I felt there was nowhere I could truly relax, nowhere I could let my voice grow and become the young adult I wanted to be. I wanted to make my mark on the world, but at that point I was struggling simply to find a space in it.
The road we choose can change everything
So what changed? How did I find a different way forward? I believe we reach junctions in life where the road we choose can change everything. Looking back, I could see three possible directions. I could keep going as I was, retreating further into a darkness that frightened me. I could follow people I knew into drug abuse and petty crime. Or I could find another way. The dangers around us were real. Drug use and the sharing of needles brought HIV and AIDS into our community. People from my school died, some from drug overdoses; others spent years in and out of prison. This was the Edinburgh portrayed by Irvine Welsh in Trainspotting. It was not just a story on a page or a screen. It was the world around us.
The road I chose led me towards solidarity, politics and, eventually, public speaking. That was my path—not a prescription for everyone who stammers. By the time I was seventeen, the 1984–85 miners’ strike was coming to an end and Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government had been in power for six years. Youth unemployment was widespread, and riots were breaking out in deprived inner-city communities. I was a young person living with poverty in Edinburgh, and I had just been sacked from a printing job for refusing to cross a picket line. I was angry at the injustice I saw. I decided I could not stand on the sidelines any longer.
Anger stronger than fear
I got involved in the trade union movement and in politics. Did I stop to think about my stammer before making that decision? No. My anger at injustice was stronger than my fear of speaking. I wanted to stand up for people in my family, my community and beyond. More than forty years later, that conviction is still with me. I am proud that I chose to get involved.
I believe that decision marked the beginning of a long change in my relationship with my stammer. There was no switch to turn it off, no sudden moment when everything became easy. I cannot offer scientific evidence for what happened to me, but my own feeling is that, as I focused less on my stammer and more on what I wanted to say, I began to stammer less. Just as importantly, I found people who gave me time and made me feel welcome. Not everyone did, but the difference from the abuse I had known was profound. Over many years, I gained room to speak and room to grow. In 1988, I spoke publicly for the first time, campaigning against the Poll Tax. That campaign became part of a mass movement of civil disobedience and opposition to Thatcher’s government. For me, speaking out was a powerful step towards the person I am today.
I can stammer and still have something worth saying
My confidence grew, but there were setbacks. In my book, I describe my stammer as a wild tiger. For years, it seemed to run loose and control me. Then I thought I had tamed it—only for it to bite back. As I got older, I learned that a setback did not have to undo everything I had built. I still get the occasional bite today, but it feels more like a scratch. I can shrug it off and carry on. My pride is not in never stammering. It is in knowing that I can stammer and still have something worth saying.
Fifteen years ago, life brought another challenge: I was diagnosed with Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy, or CIDP, a rare autoimmune neurological condition affecting the peripheral nerves. In my case, an unusual complication has left the left side of my diaphragm paralysed. Alongside chronic asthma, it has made my health situation very serious. Even so, I continued working full-time as a senior trade union official until I took medical retirement almost exactly three years ago. That was another difficult turning point, but it was not the end of my contribution.
What does that have to do with my stammer? For me, a great deal. Living with a stammer helped build my determination to face adversity and keep fighting. When my health changed, I had to dig deeper than ever before. I discovered a strength I had not fully recognised in myself. I could not choose these challenges, but I could choose how I responded to them.
Continuing to speak up and advocate
When I retired three years ago, I knew I was not someone who could simply sit back and watch the world pass by. So I decided to write this book. If my story gives someone strength—a person who stammers, someone facing another kind of adversity or anyone working for a fairer world—then sharing it will have been worthwhile. I know it will not be a book for everyone. But it is honest, it is mine and I am proud to put my name to it.
I have also been volunteering with STAMMA as their Trade Union Liaison Officer. I have been helping to raise awareness of stammering in the workplace and of the vital role trade unions can play in supporting people who stammer. On International Stammering Awareness Day, STAMMA launched A Trade Union Guide to Stammering, which I helped to write. My memoir was released on the same day. I am proud to have brought my experience into work that can help others be heard and treated with respect.
I do not have to speak with a stammer to be proud of who I am
It has been some journey. But I am not the only person who stammers with a story worth hearing. We all have our own road, our own experiences and our own voice. Mine has taken me through fear, hurt, solidarity and a growing belief in myself. I do not have to speak without a stammer to be proud of who I am.
Now I am entering another chapter. I will soon be fifty-nine, and I am taking on a new role with STAMMA, supporting their advocacy team with individual casework. My years in the trade union movement have given me experience I want to put to good use. There is still work to do, still injustice to challenge and still a contribution I can make. I carry my stammer, my experience and my pride into that next chapter. You will hear me speak.
Yours, Gary Clark
Name Gary Clark
DOB 08th January 1968
From Edinburgh Scotland UK
Background: I am a person who has always stammered/ stutter from early childhood
Went through various speech therapy during childhood at various times during school age with limited improvement, and suffered from bulling at school especially during high school years and as a result left school as soon as I could left school aged 15 without any qualifications
During young adulthood struggled to cope had undiagnosed mental health conditions from mid 1980s
I became active trade unionist from 1985 aged 17 and have remained so ever since and before medical retirement in November 2023 I was a senior trade union official dealing with Royal Mail and other Post/Mail companies
Starting public speaking in 1988 and over time became a confident public speaking appearing on TV and radio at various times as well a speaker at conferences and other meeting ranging from small meeting to major rallies.
Was diagnosed with a rare neurological condition in 2011 and took medical retirement November 2023
Now a volunteer with STAMMA in their employment services with attention to awareness within the trade unions and I am their Trade Union Liaison Officer
I now also volunteer in their Advocacy Team also dealing with various cases around stammering
I have recently had my memoirs You Will Hear Me Speak published.