I’ve written about stammering so many times, I’ve lost count. It’s one of my favorite themes—maybe because it’s where language, fear, and courage all intersect. Over the years, I’ve helped students shape essays about the way a stammer shapes identity. I’ve heard stories of kids freezing before saying their own name, of battles fought with nothing but breath and resolve. I always bring in The King’s Speech, of course—that unforgettable scene where the hesitant king shouts Shakespeare in a soundproof room. It’s cinematic. Redemptive.

So yes, I thought I understood stammering.

But recently, I was taught a deeper lesson—and not by a student.

Major Dr Mohammad Ali Shah, a TEDx speaker, defense analyst, and former army officer, had come down to Kolkata as the celebrity guest for the launch of Blissfully Yours, Always by Antara Mohan. At each venue—schools, auditoriums, classrooms—we went together as a team: he, the dignitary and orator; I, simply the author’s mother.

At every event, he would rise and recite “Mehnat Karne Wale Ki Kabhi Haar Nahi Hoti.” Not gently, not performatively—but with a commanding, booming voice that filled every corner of the room. He didn’t just deliver the poem—he lived it. It was clear that this wasn’t a performance for the children. It was a mantra he had claimed for himself long ago. It had once carried him through something. Something invisible now—but present in every breath.

Ali had once stammered. I knew that—he’d told me in passing. I also knew that many of his TEDx talks—he’s among the most prolific speakers on that platform—centered around his battle with speech impairment. He had used his story to inspire countless people, time and again. And yet, despite hearing those talks, despite admiring his voice and presence, I still hadn’t truly seen the boy behind the speaker. I hadn’t really understood it.

Then, one day, he shared a screenshot with me—a message someone had sent him, praising his oratory. I glanced at it and said, “Isn’t that established by now? Why do you even care?” And perhaps, in some misplaced attempt at teasing, I even called him self-obsessed.

I saw the shift immediately. A silence—not dramatic, but different. Quiet in a way that made me feel, without words, that I’d missed something important.

That’s when my Inner Classroom opened.

I had always associated the Inner Classroom with the act of writing—helping others shape their voice, structure their stories, understand themselves. But in that moment, I realized that the Inner Classroom isn’t just where we teach—it’s where we’re humbled. Where we hear the quietest truths. Sometimes, our own voice drowns them out. Where we realise we’ve been blind to something essential, even when it stood right beside us. Mine opened not through a compliment, but through my own careless dismissal of one.

I hadn’t considered how deep that wound might still be, how fresh the memory of silence might feel—even now. I mistook achievement for healing. I mistook a friend’s vulnerability for vanity.

And then I asked myself: Why did I say that? Why was I so quick to dismiss his joy?

Maybe some part of me resents how quickly we forget what people have fought through. Or maybe I was just tired, or careless, or blind in that moment. But the truth is—I saw only the speaker, not the boy who had once struggled to speak.

We often think that people outgrow their insecurities. That once you’re on stage, with a mic and an audience, you’ve left your fears behind. But I realized that even strong people long to be seen. Not for who they are now—but for who they had to fight to become.

That compliment he received? It wasn’t just praise—it was a quiet medal. A reminder that he’d made it. That his voice, which had once betrayed him, now moved others.

I thought he was inspiring the room with that poem.
I didn’t realize—he was also reminding himself.
That every time he said, “Mehnat Karne Wale Ki Kabhi Haar Nahi Hoti,” he was speaking to the boy inside him. The one who once feared his own voice.

And there I was, someone who had written about stammering so often—thinking I knew. But I had never seen the afterlife of it. The invisible scars. The moments that still need soothing, even years after the speech becomes strong.

The next time I write about stammering, I won’t end with the triumph.
I’ll leave space for the echo.
Because every voice—no matter how powerful it becomes—still remembers the silence it rose from.

Sheetal Bagaria is an essay strategist who guides students toward foreign education while sharing meaningful life lessons along the way.