There was a girl in college who never said anything to our teacher. Not even once. She always sat in the front row, absolutely still, with her notebook open and her writing neat and clear. She always turned in her work on time, and when someone asked her a question, she would either smile or look down. Like one of those quiet kids who liked to stay out of the way, we all believed she was shy.
But one morning, during a heated class discussion, our teacher got quite angry. He asked, “Doesn’t anyone have an opinion?” as he looked around the room. He stared at her. “Hey, you! You’re here every day and always paying attention.” Don’t just sit there like a stone. Did no one ever teach you how to talk?
The room was still. The old ceiling fan’s hum even seemed to stop.
She stayed still. She didn’t do that. Instead, she stood up slowly, walked over to the whiteboard, and took up the marker. It looked like the teacher didn’t get it. Without saying a word, she began to write in nice, even strokes.
“I lost my voice in an accident two years ago.” That doesn’t imply I don’t have anything to say, though.
The marker made a noise when she underlined the last sentence. For a second, no one moved. The room was quiet in a way that was strange, and the air felt thick. It was so quiet that you could sense every heartbeat.
The teacher’s face changed. His angry gaze changed into one of great sadness. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured in a quiet voice. But she wasn’t done yet. She wrote on the board again:
“Not a lot of people ask.” They just think.
That one sentence hit us harder than any lecture we’d ever heard.
From that day on, everything was different. The teacher said sorry again, this time in front of everyone, and then he changed his lectures to incorporate written prompts and gestures so that she could join in. He put another marker on her desk in case she wanted to add something to the discourse. A few of us started learning basic sign language after class so we could talk to her without making any noise.
In our classroom, something great happened. Yes, things got quieter, but not in a bad way. People started to really pay notice. We waited for each other to speak what we were thinking. We stopped interrupting each other. We learnt to be more patient, more compassionate, and more aware of how much we could say without saying anything.
As time went on, she became one of the most regarded students in our program. She was very empathetic and her writing was deep and poetic. She advised us to think about things in a different manner and to remember that silence isn’t always empty; it can also be the most powerful thing there is.
She scrawled a note on the whiteboard before she left for the last time. It said:
“Thanks for paying attention.” It means more than you realize.
You didn’t remove that mail. It stayed there, dim and fading, until the conclusion of the semester, reminding us every day that words don’t always have to be spoken to be heard.
I still remember her years later. She didn’t say a thing, yet she showed a whole class what real communication is. She said that compassion begins when assumption ceases and that at times, the most silent individual possesses the most profound resonance.
Being bold, not sound, gives you a true voice.
