Voices In my head
The rain poured relentlessly that night, as though the heavens were mourning my existence. I sat curled up in the corner of my room, a silent prisoner of my thoughts. The mirror in front of me reflected not just my face, but every flaw I believed I carried. My trembling hands gripped the edges of the chair, my knuckles white, as I battled the relentless whispers in my head: You’re not good enough. You never will be.
This was my life—a constant cycle of self-doubt, fear, and insecurity. It began in middle school when a teacher unknowingly ignited a spark that would smolder into a wildfire of self-loathing. “Your voice is too soft,” she had said during a classroom presentation. It wasn’t meant to hurt, but it did. From that moment, every word I spoke felt like a betrayal of my worth. I withdrew, choosing silence over judgment.
By the time I reached high school, my insecurities had woven themselves into the fabric of my being. I avoided the stage, the spotlight, even friendships. I was a shadow, blending into the background, hoping no one would notice me. Yet, the more I tried to disappear, the louder my inner critic became.
Then came the letter.
It was a handwritten note slipped into my locker, scrawled on a torn piece of notebook paper: “You have a beautiful voice. Why don’t you use it?”
For weeks, I obsessed over those words. Who wrote it? What did they mean? Were they mocking me? But something about the simplicity of that note stirred something inside me—a faint ember of hope amidst the ashes of my confidence.
I began to hum when no one was around, then sang softly in the shower. The melodies felt foreign, like a language I’d forgotten but desperately wanted to reclaim. I started writing down lyrics, pouring my fears and insecurities into words. Each song became a diary entry, a way to confront the demons that had silenced me for so long.
One day, during an open mic night at school, my best friend dared me to perform. My instinct was to say no, to run and hide as I always did. But as I held that note in my trembling hand, I realized I couldn’t live in the shadows forever.
When I stepped onto the stage, my heart pounded so loudly I feared it would drown out the music. My hands shook as I gripped the microphone, but then I remembered the note: “You have a beautiful voice.”
I closed my eyes and began to sing.
The first few notes wavered, but then something incredible happened. The audience grew silent, and I felt their attention shift—not out of judgment, but connection. As I sang, I poured every ounce of my pain, fear, and insecurity into the song. Tears streamed down my face as I let go of years of self-doubt, my voice cracking under the weight of emotion.
When I finished, there was a moment of silence, followed by thunderous applause. I opened my eyes to see the crowd on their feet, some wiping away tears. In that moment, I realized something profound: my insecurity, the thing I thought would forever define me, had become the bridge that connected me to others.
That performance changed my life. It didn’t erase my insecurities, but it taught me that vulnerability is not weakness—it is strength. It is through our imperfections that we find our humanity, and in sharing them, we find connection.
To this day, I keep that note in my wallet, its edges worn from years of folding and unfolding. I never found out who wrote it, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that someone saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself, and their simple act of kindness gave me the courage to change my life.
Now, as I stand on stages around the world, sharing my story through song, I think of the countless others who sit in the corners of their rooms, drowning in their insecurities. I sing for them, hoping my voice can be the note they need to believe in themselves.
Sometimes, it takes a storm to uncover the beauty of a rainbow. And sometimes, it takes a simple note to remind someone that their voice deserves to be heard.
By: Wasima Hoque
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