By: Guadalupe Vazquez-Perez, MS4
Featured Image Source: Dame Magazine
For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived with a speech disability. I stutter. Not always, and not in the same way every day—but often enough that it’s shaped how I move through the world. Growing up, I noticed how people sometimes paused, looked away, or finished my sentences. No one had to say it out loud: my voice made people uncomfortable.
So I learned to adapt in silence. I memorized synonyms on the fly in case certain sounds felt “blocked.” I laughed less, even when something was funny, because jumping into a group conversation felt risky. I avoided ordering at restaurants. I became good at scanning a room and deciding if it was worth the effort to speak. Most days, it didn’t feel worth it.
I was 13 when I moved to the U.S. from Cuba with my family. I already felt behind—new country, new language, new systems I didn’t understand. But layered on top of the usual immigrant experience was a constant sense that my voice didn’t quite belong. Whether in English or Spanish, my words sometimes came with pauses, repetitions, or blocks that made people listen to how I was speaking instead of what I was saying. I quickly learned that fluency was perceived as intelligence, and I didn’t feel like I had either. So I focused on perfection in every other way. Straight A’s. Always prepared. Quietly excellent. And invisible.
When I got into medical school, I thought maybe that part of me would fade away. That the confidence of wearing a white coat would somehow settle my speech. Instead, my insecurities grew louder. Medical training relies on communication—presenting on rounds, giving handoffs, advocating for patients. I worried constantly that if I stuttered while answering a question or taking a history, people would question my competence. I got good at hiding the effort it took to speak. I rehearsed everything, twice. I smiled through moments of discomfort. I asked the “next best question” before someone could ask me one. But I also became tired – tired of shrinking myself to fit into an image of what a “competent” doctor should sound like.
There’s one moment I carry with me. During my internal medicine rotation, we were rounding on a complex patient. The attending asked a question I had spent hours studying for the night before. I knew the answer. I was ready. I opened my mouth—and stuttered. My speech caught. It felt like everything in the room paused. The moment probably lasted five seconds, but to me it felt like five minutes. I finally got the answer out, but the team had already moved on. No one said anything unkind. But the silence said enough.
I walked to my car that day and cried. Not because I didn’t know the material—but because I couldn’t say it the way I wanted to. I remember sitting in the parking lot wondering how many more rooms I would have to prove myself in just to be taken seriously. And the truth is—that moment wasn’t rare. It was just one of many. Day after day, those moments piled up. The stares, the pauses, the pressure I put on myself to perform flawlessly. My confidence began to unravel. I became anxious before every rotation. I would go home and replay conversations in my head, nitpicking every pause. Eventually, the weight of it all became too much. My mental health started to decline, and for the first time, I allowed myself to admit I wasn’t okay.
I had lived with my stutter my entire life. But this was the first time I paused long enough to actually take care of it—and take care of myself. I took time off. I tried speech therapy, traditional therapy, medications. I searched relentlessly for a fix, hoping I could finally be “normal.” I just wanted to be a doctor. I just wanted people to see how capable I was.
Third year of medical school was the hardest time of my life. The demands of rotations are overwhelming on their own—early mornings, long nights, constant evaluations. But on top of that, I felt like I was falling short. Not because I wasn’t prepared, but because of something I couldn’t control. Grades depended on communication. Even when I got strong feedback, I’d fixate on one line: “Could be more confident when speaking.” It echoed in my head, making me question if the world of medicine had room for someone like me.
But slowly—through rest, reflection, and support—I began to realize that I didn’t need to overcome my stutter to be a good doctor. I needed to stop punishing myself for having it.
The truth is, there are still days when I feel that weight, when I rehearse every sentence before I speak, when I feel myself shrinking again. But something has shifted. I’ve stopped hiding. I’ve stopped apologizing for how I speak. And I’ve started honoring the courage it takes to speak anyway.
What changed wasn’t my fluency. It was my understanding of what it means to communicate. I’ve come to realize that communication isn’t about sounding perfect—it’s about being present. It’s about listening deeply, thinking carefully, and speaking with intention. And yes, that speech might come with pauses or repetitions. But that doesn’t make it any less valid. It doesn’t make me any less capable.
The funny thing is, once I started showing up as myself, patients started responding differently. They listened more closely. They opened up more quickly. They trusted me—not because I didn’t stutter, but because I was truly present with them. And because I knew what it felt like to be unheard.
I didn’t start advocating because I felt brave. I started because I felt invisible. Because I didn’t see other students like me being represented or supported. And because I knew that if I stayed quiet, someone else might think they had to stay quiet too.
Advocacy gave me the words I didn’t know I was missing. It gave me the language to speak about what I once thought I had to carry alone. It gave me a community I wish I had seen as a younger student. It gave me the courage to believe that I am not “less than”—I am exactly enough.
I am still learning to embrace my voice—every pause, every repetition, every beat of vulnerability that comes with speaking authentically. But I know now that my voice is not something I need to overcome to be a doctor. It is something that has shaped the kind of doctor
I am becoming: compassionate, present, and fiercely empathetic.
So here I am. Still stuttering. Still showing up. And proud of my voice—exactly as it is.
If you’ve ever felt like your voice doesn’t belong, I want you to know: it does. And so do you.
We Need to Do Better in Medicine
Medicine is a profession built on communication, but too often, we have a narrow idea of what a “good communicator” sounds like. It’s time to challenge that. Because fluency is not the same as clarity. Confidence doesn’t always come naturally. And performance—how polished or “perfect” someone sounds—should never be valued more than presence, empathy, or authenticity.
For students with speech or communication disabilities, the barriers start early. Instead of receiving meaningful support, many are handed performative “accommodations” that do little to meet their needs. We deserve more than checkboxes. We deserve the time and space to speak without fear of judgment. Evaluations that consider communication diversity. Disability services that don’t just exist on paper—but advocate in action.
Because the truth is: patients don’t care if their doctor stutters. They care if their doctor listens. They care if they’re heard, respected, and cared for. And students—no matter how they communicate—can be that kind of doctor.
Visibility matters. When we never see disabled medical professionals leading rounds, teaching, or mentoring, we internalize the belief that we have to hide to belong. That’s not inclusion. That’s silence. And silence has never been the way forward.
We deserve to show up fully. We deserve to be evaluated by what we know and how we care—not by how perfect we speak. We deserve mentors who understand, and peers who advocate alongside us. Most importantly, we deserve a future in medicine where we’re not just surviving—but shaping the system itself.
What Advocacy Can Look Like
Advocacy isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quietly sharing your story, offering support, or gently challenging outdated ideas. It’s standing beside those who’ve gone quiet, noticing what others overlook, and giving yourself permission to rest when you need to.
You don’t have to have a title or a platform to make a difference. You can start right where you are—with your story, your truth, and your voice. That’s more than enough.
