The Day I Lost My Voice — And Found My Strength

By: Asadullah Azimi
Word Count: ~760

I wasn’t born loud. I wasn’t the kind of child who ran through crowds or shouted answers in class. I was the kind who watched. Who listened. Who imagined whole worlds in silence.

But silence is a strange place. Sometimes it’s peace. Sometimes it’s prison.

And for me, silence slowly turned into fear.

I still remember the first time the world told me I wasn’t enough. It wasn’t dramatic. No spotlight. No audience. Just a small classroom, a math problem on the board, and a quiet hand raised in hope.

“Wrong again,” the teacher said, with a sigh that cut deeper than the mistake.

My classmates laughed. I didn’t cry. I smiled. That quiet smile—the kind that hides a thousand wounds.

That night, I stayed awake replaying it in my head. Not the mistake. But the way I felt erased, like my thoughts didn’t deserve space.

One comment became two. Two became a pattern. And slowly, my voice faded—not just in sound, but in spirit.

In high school, I became the person who only spoke when called upon. Who let others lead group projects. Who wrote speeches for others, but never read his own out loud.

People thought I was shy. But it wasn’t shyness. It was the fear of being unwanted, unheard, or worse—laughed at.

The irony is, I had so much to say. I wanted to talk about science, dreams, war, peace, purpose. I wanted to ask questions that didn’t have simple answers.

But I buried those questions deep. Because being invisible felt safer than being rejected.

And yet, something inside me refused to die.

It started with a pen. Not a microphone. Not a speech. Just a cheap blue pen, a wrinkled notebook, and a thought I couldn’t ignore.

“What if I write what I cannot say?”

I didn’t know then, but that sentence saved me.

I wrote at night, in corners, during breaks. Paragraphs turned into pages. Pain turned into poetry. Fear turned into fire.

And for the first time in years, I felt powerful. Not because people heard me, but because I finally listened to myself.

Each sentence I wrote felt like a piece of my voice returning. Each paragraph was a small rebellion against the silence I once accepted.

Writing taught me something school never did: That wisdom doesn’t come from speaking loudly — it comes from listening deeply.

Eventually, I realized I wasn't the only one who had lost their voice.

I met people who were silenced by fear, by trauma, by failure. Mothers told to be quiet. Students laughed at for asking questions. Men told that emotions are weakness. Women told to stay small.

We are a generation raised to be quiet — but born to speak.

And when I began to speak again, even quietly, something changed. Not in the world — but in me. I began to stand taller. I stopped apologizing for existing. I remembered that my thoughts have value, and my story deserves space.

I know now that losing your voice isn’t the end. It’s a chapter — not your whole story. And sometimes, losing your voice is exactly what leads you to your truth.

To anyone reading this who feels invisible, unheard, or forgotten — you are not alone. Your quiet does not make you weak. It makes you real.

You don’t need permission to rise. You don’t need approval to speak.

You only need to believe that your voice matters — even if it trembles.

Because somewhere, someone is waiting to hear exactly what you have to say.

I’m still learning. Still growing. But now, I walk with my voice beside me — not behind me. It’s not always loud. It doesn’t need to be. It just needs to be mine.

And that is enough.

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