“Could you say that again?”

“Could you say that again?”

“DA-Nee-Tza.” You put the emphasis on the first syllable and pronounce the end like “pizza.”

I’ve introduced myself to so many people in that way, that it’s really become routine. People like to pretend (and I used to pretend) that they only had trouble saying my name properly because it’s Serbian, but none of those sounds should be unfamiliar to anyone who speaks English or French…or literally any other language.

The reality is, they don’t want to admit that I genuinely have trouble with certain sounds. My old speech therapists did their best to help me, but I still slip up constantly. My D becomes a T, my S becomes a Z, and I end up telling the barista to call me “DJ” because I don’t want to watch them try to spell my name on the cup.

I’ve had speech issues since I was too young to remember, but I’ve always known that the condition was physical. When you’re born with a giant cleft palate and breathing problems and doctors screw up your jaw trying to fix it, it’s kind of hard to speak like a normal person. You spend half of elementary school telling your classmates how cool it is that you get to skip class to play board games with your therapist, but then leave out the part about you crying because when she tried to teach you to pronounce S sounds, you just couldn’t do it.

One would think that spending years in speech therapy would allow me to speak clearly. But here I am—thirteen years, two therapists, three sets of braces, and one jaw surgery later—still unable to pronounce my own name. My mouth should now be perfect, but my muscles are still stuck in the past, and they might always be.

At some point, I just had to own it. How did I do that? I started with writing. Then, I spoke. I joined model UN in high school, I led my church choir, and even now I go out all the time for karaoke night on St Laurent. I still can’t stand to listen to my own recorded voice without cringing, but there is something great about being onstage, opening my mouth, telling a story, and then hearing applause.

I know. There’s something inherently comical about being a self-proclaimed singer and storyteller who can’t pronounce the S. But those things have allowed me to start a journey of self-love. They’ve allowed me to escape the constant shadow of shyness and mutters.

By getting up on stage, saying “f*** it,” and holding the microphone up to my mouth, I’ve found my voice. And it sounds great.

Danica is a third year anatomy and English literature student at McGill University who loves singing, writing, cooking, and sleeping. She likes to stick around in McConnell when she’s recovering from lectures and go see a movie when she wants to reward herself at the end of the week. Feel free to talk to her, but if you want to talk to her about Avengers theories then prepare to be there all day.