I have experienced death more than once—but not how you might expect it. I am not a stunt double from the movies or one to take part in daring acts; rather, I am a twenty-four-week preemie. A child that was predicted to have no future. 

Up until the age of three, I hadn’t spoken a word, not even a babble. I understood what others were saying, but I couldn’t verbally respond. So, that left me with two options: my eyes and facial expressions.

One blink meant yes.

Two blinks meant no.

Three blinks meant okay.

A smile meant happiness. 

A frown meant sadness.

That was the extent of my communication for three years. 

Unbeknownst to my family and me, my left vocal cord became paralyzed as a result of a surgical complication. Without the ability to speak, I couldn’t stand up for myself or tell others what I needed. I was verbally powerless. Eventually, I landed at a speech clinic at the local children's hospital, where I found out I was one of approximately 250 children globally living with the same burden. 

Typically, speech therapy is meant for children that can already produce sound, but I produced no sound whatsoever. I started with basic exercises: shaping my mouth first, firmly pressing my tongue to my front teeth, and exaggerating the motion of speech. Small whispers rolled off my tongue, but it still wasn’t sufficient enough to begin four-year-old kindergarten (4K). A year later, growth toppled over death as my speech developed just enough to go to school. 

Entering 4K at five years old meant I was older than my classmates. Being older came with more emotional and mental maturity. As I listened to my classmates talk faster than a Hot Wheels race car zooming across the table, I felt confined to my table and chair. I felt shut out, as I could not talk as fast as them. I regressed; the confidence I once had in the words I worked hard to master had withered. Nonetheless, I spoke as much as possible at home and continued to build the rate of words I could speak per minute. I read books aloud, building up my confidence. Eventually, I caught up with my peers, and was able to talk at the speed of a toy car, too. 

For the next several years, I was asked the same two questions: “Why do you sound that way?” and “Do you have a cold?” To which I would confidently reply, telling them why I sound the way I do, and that I am not sick. 

Beginning high school was the perfect opportunity to advocate for myself. I knew I had a voice. I just needed to learn how to put it to use. 

Last year, I was fortunate enough to work with Be The Match and Children’s Wisconsin to create a public service announcement about bone marrow transplantation for a Health Occupation Students of America (HOSA) competition project. Through this, I attended the state and international competitions, using my voice to inform others about the importance of bone marrow transplants through presentations, and encouraging others to become donors. 

 Death comes in many forms; some physical, some emotional. When dealing with death, one either comes out of it as a stronger person or a weaker person. After eighteen years, I defeated the odds and became the stronger person I had yearned for. Ultimately, my vocal disability taught me the outcomes of my limitations do not compare to the result of resiliency.