In the corners of my childhood notebooks—right behind the pages no teacher ever turned—I found my first classroom. Not the outer one with chalk and blackboards, but the inner classroom, where emotions whispered, and my pen translated them into poetry.
It was about me—my reflections, my awkwardness, my questions, my tears.
I wasn’t particularly good at English. But poetry didn’t care. It just flowed.
It wasn’t the kind of poetry teachers expected—no descriptions of flowers or meadows or sunsets. It was raw, emotional, and deeply personal. I never shared it. I didn’t even think of myself as a poet. But behind the exercise books I didn’t have to submit, my words danced freely.
For the longest time, I wore that ability like a secret badge—something quiet and precious that made me feel just a little different, a little magical.
But then, the world began to change.
Years later, I saw people who had never written a single line of poetry start composing—with the help of AI. Even beautiful ones. Lines that looked polished, perfect. Suddenly, poetry was everywhere. Tools and apps made it easy, effortless, accessible. And without realizing it, I started to shrink.
That was the beginning of the comparison trap—when something that once set me apart started to feel ordinary.
What made me special didn’t feel so special anymore.
I found myself trapped in comparison—not with others, but with a new reality. Could something so deeply mine now be replicated? Replaced?
So, I stopped writing.
And then, I met Risha Sheth a student from Surat.
Risha had recently lost her grandfather —a renowned pediatrician (Dr Ashok Kapse) and a COVID warrior. As she spoke about him, her words were soft, but her emotions ran deep. She told me about the last gift he left her—a handwritten poem, given to her by her grandmother after his passing.
She carried it in her diary like a sacred relic.
“This is what I read when I miss him,” she said. “It makes me feel like he’s still with me.”
When it came time to write her Common App essay, we explored different ideas. But no matter what topic we began with, she always circled back to that one poem. She said it held a spark of realization and growth for her—the way it arrived after his passing, the comfort it gave her, the life it breathed back into moments of silence. I nudged her toward other themes, and even the team felt the story was a bit too sentimental or perhaps even clichéd. But between the poet and the poetry, she had already made her choice. And I decided to honor that. Because sometimes, our deepest essays don’t just answer prompts—they answer a need within.
I held that poem, and in that moment, I understood something my inner classroom had been trying to tell me all along:
Poetry isn’t about being original. It’s not about keeping up with technology or trends. It’s about leaving a piece of yourself behind—something that speaks when you're no longer around. Something that lives in someone else’s heart.
And just like that, the trap loosened. I wasn’t here to compete—I was here to feel, to witness, to express.
That night, I returned to my yellowed notebook. I wrote again. It didn’t rhyme. It didn’t sparkle. But it was honest. It was mine.
The inner classroom is a space that doesn’t shout. It doesn’t compete. It reminds you who you were before the world told you who you should be. It’s where creativity is not a race, but a reflection.
And that’s where I found my peace again—not in being the best, but in being true.
Sheetal Bagaria is an essay strategist who guides students toward foreign education while sharing meaningful life lessons along the way.
