Growing up, I made the mistake of allowing a single flaw to determine my self-worth and potential. Although the importance of the ability to communicate clearly with others cannot be overstated, an individual can develop numerous talents, qualities, and skills without having to articulate a single word.

From kindergarten to the beginning of high school, I participated in weekly speech therapy sessions designed to improve my verbal skills so that, to put it bluntly, I would not enter adulthood sounding like porky pig.

Although these lessons eventually worked, for about ten years I pinned this inability as the source of my failures while allowing it to override any successes. In my mind, my existence served as a joke due to the sound of my voice, a crippling insecurity that continued to affect my confidence long after it was resolved.

As ridiculous as it may sound, speech therapists gave me assignments including tongue exercises and tricky phrases I was to slowly repeat over and over in front of a mirror.

If there's anything that makes a child feel intellectually incompetent, it's staring at her reflection and repeating expressions like "rrrrorrry rrreads everrry thurrrrsday" with the knowledge that most people would not be able to understand such a simple statement when delivered from her mouth.

And yes, of course other students in my class made fun of me for this problem. Kids can be cruel, but honestly, the majority of ridicule for my (lack of) verbal skills was self-inflicted. During after school bus rides, I remember longingly watching my best friends as they shared stories, imagining what it would feel like to speak without the constant embarrassment that I allowed to accompany my speech impediment.

As a part of the speech therapy program at my elementary school, linguistically challenged students were given an objective evaluation of their technical verbal skills, much like an IQ test or other standardized exams, every year. I remember receiving the results from one annual assessment in the mail at age eight.

It stated that, as a third grader, I spoke at the capacity of a toddler.

Reading this analysis felt like a stab in the chest, and I dealt with this like I did most emotionally tormenting situations, by expressing little visible reaction and forcing myself to focus on my primary level reading material as a distraction (healthy, I know).

Understandably, this lack of response irritated those around me, particularly my mother, who in a moment of frustration waved the letter in my book entranced face, asking me how on earth I was so unbothered by the fact that in my late elementary years, I still spoke like a three-year-old. In truth, this information destroyed me, but I did not see the point in articulating my feelings if I could not get the words out right anyways.

Twice during grade school, I won a statewide story writing competition, qualifying for a higher level competition and receiving the opportunity to compete academically with students around the world. The winning stories of each state or country were re-evaluated against each other, and the overall winner was announced at a convention later that year. There, the first place student had to read his piece in front of an audience and answer questions afterwards.

Not that my mediocre pre-teen story telling skills had a chance of winning anyways, but both times my stories were entered to be judged internationally, I hoped and prayed I would not win because my worse nightmare consisted of having to speak in front of a crowd of highly intelligent students and critical adults. I cringed at the thought of my nerdy, awkward self stumbling over my own words before judges who would have undoubtedly regretted their decision the second I opened my mouth.

As I grew older, my speech impediment controlled my thoughts more than I would like to admit.

Before speaking, I would carefully consider my language, making sure I did not attempt any embarrassingly difficult sounds. For example, words like "girl" and "world" were off limits completely. I soon became a walking and (on rare occasions) talking thesaurus for tongue twisting words and phrases.

Coming from a generation that grew up idealizing Disney musicians like Hannah Montana and The Cheetah Girls, middle schoolers in the 2010's considered the ability to hold a toon an admirable talent. In sixth grade, my locker was located in between those of pre-teen royalty.

These girls learned to adequately apply mascara and style their pin straight brunette locks at a tender age, socially placing them what seemed like light years away from me.

Picture me with my porky pig sounding speech, thick glasses, lanky figure, academic competitions, frizzy hair... I think I've made my point.

I did my best to make myself invisible while exchanging books between classes that year (not that this was a difficult task, given the circumstances).

One day, I overheard one of the girls praise her own singing voice while her friends jokingly disagreed. As the group walked away in laughter, I remember watching them, not necessarily with envy, but more of a longing sadness regarding the perception that I was so distant from them.

How could they not all be great singers?

In my mind, Anyone who didn't speak like a toddler could surely sing, perform, or really accomplish just about anything with the upmost confidence. Despite her friends' jokes, I bet this girl had a beautiful voice, not because she could serenade an audience but because she could pronounce the lyrics with accuracy and poise, a concept entirely unreachable for me at the time.

Hey, eleven-year-old Mary- eight years later, you can pronounce words with 'r', but your singing voice is still less than harmonic, to say the least. Pronunciation abilities and vocal talents, like many valuable skills, lack association.

By the time I entered high school, my problematic speech patterns were pretty much settled, but a whole other monster that had been manifesting itself in my mind for the last decade grew painstakingly apparent in class. I was afraid to speak- to classmates, teachers, and just about anyone else I did not consider a close friend.

As I'm sure anyone in my high school would attest, painfully shy serves as a gross understatement for how I carried myself throughout those four years. In elementary school, my peers who had grown up alongside me understood the reasons for my silence.

But upon entering an environment with new people and freshly developed "normal" speech patterns, I was frozen in fear.

I sat in class, dreading the moment when my name was called because I had always restricting myself from verbally expressing my thoughts, and now, had no idea how to go about this task.

If any of my former teachers are reading this, first of all thank you for taking the time out of your day to entertain my stupid teenage thoughts, but more importantly, I'm so so sorry for my lack of participation in your classes. I promise I (mostly) always paid attention, but I think raising my hand in class would have given me a heart attack, and that would have resulted in a lot of paperwork you didn't need to deal with.

As a naive, insecure child, I stunted my social development by defining the entirety of my self-worth by one amendable flaw. Everyday, I work to push myself beyond my unreasonably restricted comfort zone with hopes of self-improvement. Last semester, I received an "A" in a public speaking class (if you need proof I understand, receipts can be provided). Though many students regard this class as a GPA booster, to me, the successful grade signifies progress separate from and incapable of being overridden by any past struggle, insecurity, or flaw.