Finding My Voice Through Jonathan Groff
So, let me tell you a story — one that starts in the quiet wilds of Donegal and somehow ends with me feeling like an entirely new person. It all began pretty innocently: I was stuck there for two weeks during teacher training, surrounded by lads who were glued to Gaelic matches and pints, while I retreated into the world of Broadway cast recordings. That’s when I discovered the recent production of Merrily We Roll Along featuring Jonathan Groff and Daniel Radcliffe. And honestly, from that moment, something in me clicked.
Like so many others online, I fell headfirst into a full-blown Jonathan Groff rabbit hole. Interviews, performances, cast albums — if he was in it, I watched it. What drew me in wasn’t just his talent but this unmistakable sense of joy about him. He had this warm, bubbly energy, always smiling, always open. His voice felt like melted chocolate — smooth, comforting, confident. And naturally, I started comparing him to myself… and realising how far off I felt.
Because ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a stammer — and not a small one. It shaped everything. Phone calls were impossible. Asking for something in a shop was an ordeal. Even saying my own name could send me spiralling. Kids laughed, adults rushed to finish my sentences, and I went through life feeling like people never really met me . I had humour, opinions, personality — all trapped behind a mouth that wouldn’t cooperate. Teaching only amplified that frustration. Every day left my jaw sore and my confidence shot.
But then came that one night — 3am, exhausted but unable to sleep — when I was watching yet another Groff interview. He was talking about coming out, admitting he had been afraid of the impact it might have on his career, but that being loved gave him the courage to be honest. And something in those words just… shifted. Maybe I could find that kind of courage too.
Eventually, after failing teacher training, my therapist urged me to try the McGuire Programme — an intensive approach to speech and breathing. I doubted it, of course. How could techniques fix something so deeply tied to emotion? But I went anyway. And it was brutal. Four long days from morning to night, sweating through breathing drills, practicing my own name again and again. But it worked. On the final day, we had to talk to 100 strangers and openly mention our stammer — a nightmare scenario for me. And yet, people were kind. People listened. For the first time, I felt myself breaking through.
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By the end of that course, I looked up at the moon and felt like my life was starting over. I remembered that moment when I first heard Groff sing in Merrily : “It’s our time, breathe it in.” And for the first time, I believed it. I’m taking drama classes now, making phone calls, asking for directions — tiny things, maybe, but huge for me. I still have work to do, but I’m lighter, freer, and finally ready to step out into the world as myself.
Jonathan Groff and the Night That Changed Everything
So let me tell you this story the way it lives in my head — like a late-night confession mixed with a quiet personal victory. It all began in the most ordinary and slightly miserable setting: two weeks of teacher training in the wilds of Donegal. While everyone else spent their nights drinking and watching Gaelic matches, I hid away with Broadway cast recordings. And that’s where Jonathan Groff first appeared in my life — almost by accident.
I stumbled onto the recent production of Merrily We Roll Along , with Jonathan Groff and Daniel Radcliffe, and immediately fell down a full-blown Groff rabbit hole. Suddenly I was hunting down interviews, listening to cast albums, replaying clips at all hours. There was something about him — that bubbly, joyful energy, that bright smile. His calmness drew me in. He just seemed… open. Free. Everything I wasn’t.
Because for as long as I can remember, my life had been shaped — and often restricted — by a stammer. Simple tasks like asking for something in a shop or making a phone call felt impossible. Even saying my own name could be a battle. Children laughed. Adults tried to finish my sentences with that soft, pitying smile. I knew I was funny, opinionated, sarcastic — but none of that came out. I felt trapped inside myself.
Teaching only magnified the struggle. My mouth would ache by the end of the day, and humiliation would settle in like a heavy coat. I’d go home exhausted, relieved just to be silent and in control again.
But one night — 3 a.m., eyes half-open — I was watching Jonathan Groff tell a story about coming out, about how love had given him the strength to be himself. And something shifted. A warmth spread through me. If he could face the world honestly, maybe I could face mine too.
So I signed up, reluctantly and fearfully, for the McGuire Programme — a course designed to retrain speech through breathing and technique. The night before was awful; I couldn’t sleep, I was nauseous, every part of my body resisted. But I still went. And those four days were gruelling: long hours, endless exercises, and the terrifying task of admitting my stammer to 100 strangers.
But to my surprise, people were kind. People listened. People understood. And for the first time, I wasn’t hiding. I joked. I introduced myself. I spoke with confidence. I felt — in a way I’d never felt before — free.
That night, looking up at the moon, Jonathan Groff’s voice echoed in my head: “It’s our time, breathe it in.” And for once, I believed it. My life wasn’t “fixed,” but it was opening. Slowly, beautifully. Drama classes, phone calls, asking for directions — little things that now felt possible.
I’m no longer ashamed of my voice. I’m stepping into the world as myself, finally ready to be seen.
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