by Samvit Tapdiya
PureTravel Writing Competition 2025
I still remember the first time I stood on a stage. I was six years old, holding on a crumpled sheet of paper with a poem I had practiced for days. The auditorium lights felt blinding and the crowd of over three hundred people looked endless from where I stood. My legs shook. When I finally leaned into the microphone, nothing came out. My throat closed, my eyes burned and before I knew it, I was crying. My mother walked me gently off stage, but that walk felt like the longest I had ever taken. The silence, the stares and the weight of my own voice deserting me—that was the hardest part.
That night, though, I made a choice. I could either stay away from stages forever, or I could go back and try again. Most kids my age would have avoided it, but something inside me knew I didn’t want my story to end like that. I didn’t want my story to end with silence. No one pushed me. My parents were kind, but the decision was mine. I began practicing in front of mirrors, speaking lines until they stopped sounding foreign. Slowly, I convinced myself that fear wasn’t a wall, it was a door I had to keep pushing open.
The first test of that decision came with my school’s inter-house elocution. I was nervous all over again. My palms were sweaty as I waited for my name to be called. This time, I had chosen a short English poem about courage. When I started speaking, my voice sounded a bit off at first, but then it found its rhythm. Each word felt like a step further away from the boy who had broken down on that stage. When the results were announced and I had come first, I couldn’t believe it. Relief, pride, even disbelief,all of it washed over me at once. In that moment, I stopped being the boy who froze on stage and became the boy who had finally found his voice.
After that, something changed in me. Stage fright no longer felt like a curse. It became a challenge. I wanted to keep conquering that challenge. In junior school, I participated in almost every elocution competition I could, be it either Hindi or English, I threw myself into the words, letting them shape the way I stood and spoke. I began experimenting with tone, pauses and emphasis and slowly I started enjoying the performance itself. My classmates began to notice too and they cheered for me. They no longer remembered me as the boy who had broken down on stage, but as the one who often walked away with prizes. One particular performance stands out in my memory: a Hindi poem about resilience. I could see my teachers nodding along as I spoke, and for the first time I felt not just like a participant, but like someone who could connect with an audience. That feeling was addictive.
When I entered middle school, my journey shifted. Now began the real test. I was introduced to debating. Debates demanded quick thinking, the ability to listen carefully and the ability to challenge someone else in front of a crowd. My first debate was nerve-wracking. The topic was read: “Whether technology was a boon or a bane.” I remember holding on to my flash cards when i was called up to speak. But once I began, the rush of formulating arguments on the spot, responding to opponents and trying to sway the judges gave me a new kind of thrill. This wasn’t like an elocution where we have to learn lines and recite the poem. It was about thinking on spot. While representing my house in those debates, it made me feel responsible, for both me and my team. Facing tough opponents humbled me, but every loss taught me more about composure and respect than any victory could.
When I reached high school, debates grew sharper, the topics became more complex, and the audiences bigger. That was when I discovered Model United Nations. Walking into my first MUN simulation, I felt a wave of déjà vu. The room was full of delegates in formal attire, shuffling papers and preparing speeches and once again, I was that six-year-old boy staring at a people, staring at delegates. But instead of thinking about the past and letting the fear paralyze me, I leaned into it. Speaking as a delegate required more than just eloquence. A Model United Nations simulation required research, diplomacy and negotiations. I wasn’t speaking for myself anymore, I was representing nations, ideas and policies.
Then came my first ever MUN conference. The committee was fast-paced, the arguments fierce and the pressure constant, but something about the environment energised me. I found myself giving solutions to the committee regarding the given agenda, negotiating with others, and speaking with a confidence that felt worlds away from the boy who once cried on stage. When my name was announced as the Outstanding Delegate of the committee, my happiness knew no bounds. This was what I was meant to do: to use my voice not only to express myself, but to build connections and inspire change.
I learned to break my silence and speak, and in the same way, the world must find its voice to protect planet Earth. If the Earth were standing on a stage right now, I think it would be shaking the way young me once did, waiting for someone to speak for it. Global issues like climate change, pollution and cutting down trees are so huge that many people decide stay quiet, thinking one voice won’t matter. But silence always has a cost. If a six-year-old boy could face his fear of a crowd, then people everywhere can face the fear of acting for the Earth. The planet doesn’t need us to be perfect. It only needs us to speak up.
What I’ve learned is that real turning points are not about winning prizes or getting appreciation. They are about courage. The courage to try again after failing and to keep speaking when staying silent feels easier. I would never have found the joy of debates, the lessons of MUNs, or the happiness of inspiring others with my words if I decided to stay silent and if the world gives up on speaking for the Earth, we may never see the strength and creativity we are all capable of.
Photo by NASA on Unsplash
