Annabelle N., Oakwood High School
Happiness Starts With "R"
For most of my life, I was unable to speak. Though it appears exaggerated, I’ve always struggled with ‘r’ sounds, wrestling with my lips to say words like “are”, or “door”. I’d open my mouth to talk– and choke on my tongue trying to muster a sentence. My self-expression was smothered, rhotic sounds were landmines blowing up every time I wanted to speak.
Over time, I got more frustrated with my speech impediment. I’d scream at my parents when they tried to help me practice sounds, and I shut off the idea of it ever going away. I switched speech therapists more than I could keep track of, but with each additional helping hand, I only sunk deeper into my misery. Talking embodied embarrassment; I couldn’t even say my last name without being trapped in that sound sinkhole.
Eventually, my parents took me to the children’s hospital to work with a speech specialist, hoping that it’d fix the twist in my tongue that arose with every “er” and “ar”. I wasn’t happy to be there whatsoever, after all, I’d woken up early on Saturday to talk to another therapist about my biggest flaw. Still, I walked through the clean, bright hallways, down to the basement to meet with a nice tall lady with rosy cheeks and sheets of words to agonize me. She knew more about talking than anyone I’d ever met, but I still couldn’t use what she’d told me to form clear words.
Nonetheless, I went to the hospital every other week to try, though it was about as successful as running a marathon through mud. One day, however, as I trudged in, I saw a girl leaving with her brother. She was being wheeled out by him, her brother pushing both her wheelchair and IV rack. She smiled brightly at me as she passed. That day, I thought a little less about my great issue of r’s.
The next few times I walked into the hospital, I did something you didn’t need to be able to say r’s to do. I paid attention. I noticed when kids were sick, or when parents brought their babies into speech hoping they’d utter a single word. I recognized the hardship and grief of kids in the parking lot and parents in the waiting room. I also saw their shining love and resilience.
I’d gotten used to feeling like a most unfortunate person, but now I realized my luck. If these families could go through the worst time of their lives and still find things to smile about, why should I give up?
Last year, after nearly a decade, I went to a speech session for the last time. Now, when I encounter dilemmas, I think of those families at the hospital. I held onto their strength while going through speech therapy, and that outlook pushed me through struggle and helped me conquer it. Now, when I smile through a world of pessimism and sorrow, I do it for them.
