A stammer slows down time. When the tongue trips on a word, syllabelle or alphabet, everything freezes. The faces of your audience, your lips, even the rest of your sentence momentarily blur into labyrinthine fractals. In one layer, fraught nerves, shame and a deflated ego merge into deformed, throbbing shapes. Another vein jumbles synonyms with unfinished thoughts and half-baked ideas. This kaleidoscopic show of symbols, emotions and literal words seemingly hovers in the air as a reminder of what you mean to say, taunting the tongue to finish what it started. Seconds decelerate into milliseconds, a single hair falls to the ground, the heart flutters and tinges of red occupy your cheeks, like an invader's flag on home soil.

Behind the-scenes, the brain kicks into high gear. Intensely aware that its southern neighbor, the mouth, has been open mid-sentence for far too long, the body's command centre furiously weighs options. Three scenarios usually follow. The brain can pivot to another word or pause and attempt to gracefully end the sentence preemptively. The mouth, sick of its limbo state, can also fight the stammer by increasing velocity and banging out the problematic consonant in a strained rush. Usually, the former wins but every now and then, a fight between brain and mouth emerges amid deep-seated tensions over the control of speech. Meanwhile, the drained and disheartened body yearns for a hole to disappear into.

As humans, the voice is our go-to tool to communicate and connect so when it distorts, we're tricked into all sorts of unhealthy beliefs. Stammering is rooted in both physical and psychological issues but most of its victims think social skills are to blame, which is far from true. People who stammer, a group that includes all personality types, don't think in stammers. Our mental meanderings are fluid but they move at a faster clip than our speech, which leads to the voice falling into metaphorical potholes. This trip comes to shape our self-worth. Stammering isn't considered a disability but it's a clear sign that something's not right. The fact that speech is a highly public display of individualism doesn’t help. Just as we want our clothes, apartments and social media profiles to represent our tastes and quirks, speech and accents become another battleground for identity, an arena to showcase our self, or a version of it. When the voice jerks, we take it personally and tend to view it as a sign of flawed personality rather than an impairment.

My situation was't debilitating but it was bad enough that I couldn't introduce myself, answer the phone or respond to direct questions without stumbling. From the time I started talking at the age of three until university, I'd stammer at least once in conversation. It wasn't always noticeable—in later years, I caught problems before they became embarrassing situations—but it generated long-term consequences. I learnt to speak as succinctly and slowly as possible as a way of mitigating my chances of stammering—a quality that, ironically, is now highly useful in my professional field. I rarely went into detail when recounting tales and sometimes chose not to talk at all. My stammer is now a feeble shadow of what it once was but momentary lapses and blunders rear their head every now and then, usually appearing when I'm put on the spot or excited by a certain topic.

Treating a stutter requires increased fluency, i.e. a smooth flow of speech. This relates to the four-step process of speech production. Once our brain formulates thoughts, the lungs produce an airstream that goes through the larynx, where phonation occurs. Here, vocal folds produce sounds that travel to the oral and nasal cavities before being articulated by the mouth. To free up the mouth and facilitate crisp articulation, speech therapists recommend a series of exercises. I was advised to play a wind instrument, read aloud, stretch and practise breathing techniques but it didn't make much difference. Knowing these movements were linked to my stammer made me feel even more self-conscious while practising them. They became forced rituals, dissociative experiences that reinforced my incompetence. Instead, activities that got me out of my head and into a newfound interest were crucial to making real progress.

Living in Tokyo, one of the world's safest cities, during high school exposed me to a gritty world of underground subcultures. A nerdy enthusiasm for music, film and art overshadowed my insecurities, pushing me to speak up and ask questions. Instead of focusing on loosening my mouth to strengthen fluency, a stimulated brain took care of that naturally. When the mind is occupied with abstract ideas or external matters, worries take a backseat and usually manifest much later in the thought process compared to other situations. This enables a natural state of being, one that favours instinct over self-image; passion over pretense. In this stage, we’re unhurried and able to completely focus on the topic at hand without distractions. With the mind and mouth at ease, this zen-like calm instigates effortless articulation. Three hobbies brought me closer to my natural state and gradually minimised my stammer.

The first was karaoke, the fabric of social life in Japan. Singing has long been a recommended treatment for stammering because music provides a structured rhythm that acts as a cue for people to form words. The brain's left hemisphere controls speech but singing corresponds to the right hemisphere, according to a 2018 report by the University of Queensland. Singing relieves "the physiological effects of the damage to the left hemisphere, allowing fluency where there were fluency issues before," the report said. A therapist recommended singing in private as to encourage freedom of movement without the baggage of feeling self-conscious. But it was in dimly lit karaoke rooms with friends, and sometimes strangers, that my fluency really improved. The infectious fervor of the Pixies, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Blur, alongside the venue's party-like atmosphere, overshadowed embarrassment from my terrible intonation and made me want to sing more. Other public performances such as speaking in class or acting in school plays triggered stuttering but karaoke was an exception. By nature, it's an activity for amateurs and doesn't require work or talent. Enclosed in a private room surrounded by people who don't expect anything but cheap renditions is the ultimate safe zone. The bar is set so low that even silly mockery receives applause, especially when costumes or a bottomless supply of melon liquor—both staples in Tokyo's karaoke parlours—are involved. The combination of music, friends and light-spirited energy eased my inhibitions and physical stiffness, allowing me to reap the benefits of music therapy in a way singing alone didn't.

Karaoke soon became a precursor to nightlife, another helpful avenue. Everything about club culture piqued my interest—from dealing with fiends and freaks to door politics to rave fashion. Most alluring was the chance to meet people from all walks of life. Encounters with drag queens, goth kids and bouncers sparked my curiosity while teaching me valuable street etiquette. I decided that I'd rather risk stammering in these situations than lose out on them entirely. Regular interactions with strangers also helped harness an outgoing personality that I previously thought impossible. As countless sociologists and urban theorists have pointed out, the nightlife economy generates significant social capital. One 2015 research paper explains how the industry, as a melting pot of individuals, gives us an opportunity to create new identities based on intercultural, interrracial and cross-gender interactions. Nightlife strengthened my overall self-confidence but more importantly, it activated my ambitions by instilling a desire for eloquence. Emboldened by new social talents and inspired by the colourful and charming personalities on the streets of Shibuya and Roppongi, I sought to become a master in the art of conversation. I didn't want to just beat the stammer but transform into a great communicator in the process.

Debate club helped me get on that path. Before joining, I was nowhere near the level of oratory dexterity needed to persuade a panel of judges. Karaoke and nightlife had made me chattier but my ability to speak firmly and convincingly at length with a stammer was questionable. Structuring arguments wasn't hard but presenting them felt like a Herculean task. A stammer is seen as a weakness so how could my opponents ever take me seriously? Some didn't—they pounced on my repetitive patterns and used them to undermine my position. I didn't win many rounds but finishing an argument from start to finish was rewarding enough. From opening remarks to cross examinations, managing tone, vocabulary and pace of speech in the heat of the moment did what no therapist ever could. Whether making a case for Big Tobacco or abortion, I was now responsible for something greater than myself, a challenge that motivated me to perform under pressure. The act of organising my thoughts and responding to points in real-time was also such a thrill that the joy of participation far outweighed any self-imposed humiliation over halted sounds.

As more scientists attribute speech impediments to neurological conditions, the conversation around stammering is shifting away from psychology to brain development. One recent study investigates how stimulating certain parts of the brain can improve fluency, which supports my experiences of mental engagement as an effective treatment. It also brings to mind the Taoist philosopher Lao Tzu, who once said "when I let go of what I am, I become what I might be." By fully engaging with our core passions, we're able to let go of persistent self-doubts and tap into our dormant potential.