My Voice Still Shakes

A story about dyslexia, introversion, and finding confidence anyways

(2002)

“Alright class, turn to page 37. We’re going to take turns - each reading a paragraph until we finish the chapter.”

My heart rate jumped as I flipped to page 37. I scanned the first paragraph, looking for places I might get stuck. My finger traced the words as I noticed my hand shaking. I cringed, knowing that when I got called on, my voice would shake too.

“Peter, why don’t you start?”

His words blurred into a hum as I skipped to the second paragraph - I was safe from the first. I averted my eyes, wishing I could disappear. I counted how many paragraphs were left and how many kids were in class. There would be three lucky kids who didn’t have to read.

Peter finished his part. Another name was called. I chewed the inside of my lip, praying to be one of the three. I was busy scanning the next paragraph when I heard the dreaded word.

“Havana.”

I flicked my eyes to the teacher and gave a tight-lipped smile. The class groaned in unison. My chest tightened. While not many kids love popcorn reading, the goal is always to get it over with quickly. I was used to the groan that followed my name. Everyone knew the pace we’d set was about to crash.

My eyes landed on the first word of my paragraph. The rest of the words began to swirl. My face flushed. I knew I was bright red - a betrayal I couldn’t hide. It was one thing to feel the embarrassment, but worse that everyone else could see it too.

The paragraph was short, but it took me twice as long to finish. I skipped words. I skipped sentences. By the end, I’d practically developed a stutter. The teacher called on someone else. I kept my eyes glued to my desk.

(Present)

I used to hate how shy I was. How reading out loud made my throat close up. How the thought of being the center of attention felt like a punishment not a reward.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been introverted. I’ve always disliked large groups and noise. Even walking into a classroom of the same 25 kids from the day before sent dread down my spine. I hated meeting new people. I hated being the center of attention. And speaking in front of the class would leave me sleepless for weeks leading up to it. By the time I had to present, I usually blacked out and remembered none of it.

Outside of school, my introversion followed me. I learned early on that being friends with the loudest person in the group was a safety net. If they could take the spotlight, I could disappear into the background.

While I always loved soccer practice - I dreaded the moments before and after. The lingering, the small talk, the way so many girls seemed to effortlessly connect. I was hyperaware of everything: how my feet felt in my cleats, where I placed my hands, how I hovered just outside the group.

But then the whistle would blow. Practice would start. And I felt at peace. My body moved with confidence. My thoughts quieted. I felt free.

It wasn’t until college that I began to understand what had been going on all those years.

(2012 – Sophomore Year, Spring)

I sat in my academic advisor’s office, getting ready to build my class schedule.
“Looks like the last prerequisite you need is public speaking. Want to take it over the summer? That’s usually the best time - small class, mostly athletes.”

Jason looked up from his computer.

I pretended to consider it. “Do I have to take public speaking?”
He laughed. “Havana, I promise it’s not bad. And yes, it’s a requirement for business majors.”
“Awesome. That’s fine. I’ll change my major.”

He laughed again, until he saw my face.
“Wait. Are you serious? You’d change your major just to avoid public speaking?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t set on Business anyways. What majors don’t require that class?”
Jason turned back to his computer, typed for a moment, and hit print.
“Grab that and let’s see what your options are. Read it out loud - we’ll go through it together.”

I picked up the paper. My hand shook. The frustration hit instantly. I hated that it shook. I hated knowing my voice would, too.
“I’ll just read it quickly and then we can talk,” I said.
“Just you read it out loud?” He didn’t look up from his screen.
I nodded. “Yeah, but I’m slow…”

“That’s fine. Go ahead.” He turned to face me.

My face flushed as I began. I stumbled. I stuttered. The words blurred.
“Stop,” Jason said gently.

I didn’t look up. I was embarrassed.
“Jason, I promise I can read.” I laughed, trying to play it off.
“Havana, I know you can. You have great grades. I’m not worried about your ability - I’m just curious why it’s so hard. Would you be open to doing some additional testing?”

“As long as you don’t make me take public speaking.”

He smiled. “Deal.”

After testing, I found out I was dyslexic.

Suddenly, so many things clicked. The panic I felt reading out loud. The confusion with numbers. The reason I kept giving teammates the wrong hotel room number at tournaments. I’d be in Room 435 and send someone to 354 - oops.

Even concussion protocol made sense now. I was supposed to repeat six numbers back in reverse order? My actual worst nightmare.

But the diagnosis helped me have grace for myself. Now I slow down. If someone’s reading off a number, I take it one digit at a time. If I need a phone number, I hand over my phone and ask them to type it in.

Dyslexia helped explain some of it. But paired with being deeply introverted, it left me struggling with confidence.

The further I got in my soccer career, the more I felt like it was a world built for extroverts. Locker room chants. Pre-game dance parties. Loud voices on the field. I constantly compared myself to the “big” leaders around me and realized how few of those traits I had.
Being introverted wasn’t just a personality trait - it felt like a weakness. A liability. A barrier I had to overcome if I ever wanted to lead, succeed, or be respected.

That shifted my sophomore year of college.

My head coach sat me down one afternoon. I thought I was in trouble, or about to be told I needed to “step it up.” Instead, she told me I was going to be a captain.
I looked at her, stunned. Me?

I remember bracing for the but that usually came next. But you need to talk more. But you need to command the team. But you need to be louder.
But it never came.

She said - You need to be you. The kind of leader who listens before she speaks. The kind whose steadiness holds the room. The kind whose power is quiet, but undeniable. She wasn’t asking me to change. She was asking me to own my personality and lead with it.
That conversation stayed with me.

For the first time in my life, I started to believe that maybe my quiet wasn’t something to be fixed. Maybe it was something to be trusted.

In a world where we compare our blooper reels to everyone else’s highlight reels, it’s easy to lose your footing. I spent years believing I had to change to succeed. One coach even told me, “Your personality will always hold you back from greatness.”

Almost every coach I played for asked if I ever got angry. If I ever got excited. If I showed emotion.

Not letting the world’s perception of you distort your own beliefs? That’s a battle. But it’s a battle worth fighting.

I spent so much time wishing I could walk into rooms more confidently, make stronger first impressions, not sweat through shirts when I was called on. I hated the spotlight. I tried to hide.

Turns out, my quiet was never the problem. My silence only needed permission to be.

Once I stopped wishing I could be someone else, I could breathe. I could walk into a room as me. My debilitating shyness became quiet confidence.

I still don’t like being the center of attention. My voice still shakes when I speak. I still dread walking into a new locker room. And during pre-game dance parties, I’m still most comfortable sitting quietly at my locker.

But I don’t hide anymore.

Now, I own the shaky voice. I own the red face. I love my quirks.
So, this is me stepping into the light.

I won’t tell you how many times I re-recorded this—just to get it close to right (if you chose to play the audio version).

But this is me. And my voice still shakes.