More often than not, my TalkPad starts with a witty one-liner. It breaks the ice, and people never know what to expect when I pull out my TalkPad. A one-liner in my AI voice tends to sort that out quickly. I sound Welsh in my head. The voice doesn’t sound quite like me, but I am okay with that, because the joke is still authentically mine.

My relationship with AAC started in my last year of junior school, and for a long time it was love-hate. My first device was a Lightwriter, and the keys were so stiff that pressing them felt like a workout, and I had to haul the bulky device everywhere. These days I use a TalkPad 8, a tablet, which is a lot easier to live with. I’m turning love-hate into love-love. I’m getting there.

Some of that is down to what it lets me do on my own. The things I usually need to say at the post office or grocery store are saved as quick answers on my TalkPad, so they are ready before I reach the counter assistant. My answers for TV, radio and podcast interviews are recorded in advance. So are my introductions at networking events and my inspirational and author talks, so none of it relies on someone else speaking for me.

That last part matters more than it sounds. Not long after my first book came out, I went on an American podcast without telling the host about my speech impairment. They said hello, I said hello back, and their face went blank. My publisher at the time was on the call and ended up doing all the talking for an hour about my book, while I sat there. I haven’t let that happen since. I don’t go anywhere without my TalkPad and laptop now, and when I’m on a show or on stage for an inspirational talk, the words are mine.

It’s October, which means it’s AAC Awareness Month, which means there are a lot of posts explaining what AAC actually is. Augmentative and alternative communication: letter boards, symbols, sign language, apps, devices, pointing, even facial expressions. That’s all useful. But I think people get one thing wrong. They see someone using AAC and assume they are watching a workaround, the second-best option for someone who can’t communicate as effectively as they’d like to. It’s not. It’s an accessible tool and how I get to communicate for myself.

The other thing people misunderstand is that the device only does half the job. The other half is being patient when listening. When I met a Member of the Senedd to talk about getting Max and the Magic Wish into Welsh schools, I played her a response I'd recorded on my communication aid. She listened to every word. No glancing at whoever was with me, no hurrying it along. It was a good meeting, and a lot of that was down to her. Years before that, the lady who became my first publisher met me outside a local pub. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t the most conventional way to meet a book publisher, but that’s truthfully where I met them. My mum came along in case the publisher couldn't understand me. We chatted for a while. A few days later, I found myself stepping onto a journey to becoming a published author.

It isn't all smooth. My friends reckon they understand my actual speech better after I've had a drink. Most people slur. Apparently, I get clearer. I'm still working out whether that's a breakthrough or a problem.

But the good conversations far outnumber the bad ones, and they have something in common. The person on the other side isn't doing me a favour. They're just waiting for me to finish, the same as they would for anyone.

The voice doesn't sound like me. When someone waits for the whole sentence, they still hear me.