I still remember the corridor outside Section C.
It smelled like dust, ink, and something harder to describe—fear maybe. Or maybe that was just me.
That corridor saw me shrink a little every day. From grade 3 to grade 12, it was where I learned to walk with my head down, hoping not to be noticed. Because when I was noticed, it usually ended badly—taunts, jokes, casual cruelty that didn’t feel casual at all.
I went to a private school in a small Indian city—not the kind you'd read about in the news, but still busy, urban, and aspiring. In each grade, there were six sections. I was in Section C.
And I was bullied. Constantly.
Asking for Help
At first, I did what any child would do: I asked for help.
I told my teachers. One of them looked at me and said flatly:
“This is something you have to deal with on your own. We aren’t trained to handle these situations.”
That stayed with me.
Then I turned to my parents. I remember the confusion in my voice, trying to explain something even I didn’t fully understand. I remember my mother asking:
“You must have done something, right? Why would they pick on just you?”
That hurt more than I expected. I wasn’t looking for someone to fix it—just someone to believe me.
Eventually, after asking again and again, my father gave me his solution:
“Next time they mess with you, beat the shit out of them. I’ll handle what happens after that.”
But I didn’t want violence. I wasn’t brave, and I wasn’t strong—not in that way. I was scared of getting hurt, scared of hurting someone else, scared of how one moment could spiral into something worse.
So instead, I stayed silent. And afraid.
The Transfer to Section B
Somewhere in that long stretch of years, my dad finally went to the school management. He asked them to move me to a different section. They agreed. I was moved from Section C to Section B—known for being “softer,” quieter, more peaceful.
The bullying reduced. A little. But I was still hyper-aware. I would time my breaks to avoid the old faces. I’d stay late after class to avoid the corridors when they were loudest. I was learning to live around people, not with them.
And through it all, a question whispered in the back of my mind:
What’s wrong with me?
When My Voice Started to Break
I was ten when I started to stammer.
I had been a fluent speaker before that. I still remember how it felt—easy, effortless. Then suddenly, my voice started tripping over itself. Words got stuck. Sounds repeated. I didn’t understand why.
Neither did anyone else.
Looking back now, I believe it was my body speaking the fear I wasn’t allowed to express. It wasn’t a random speech issue. It was emotional. Acquired. A nervous system under strain, finally slipping.
And once it began, it stayed.
The Cafeteria Test
There’s something uniquely humbling about being afraid to order food.
Our school cafeteria wasn’t big, but it was chaotic—loud, impatient, unforgiving. And for someone who stammered, it was a nightmare.
I quickly learned to avoid anything that was hard to say. Even if I loved it, I wouldn’t order it if the word was difficult. I stuck to the things I could say quickly, cleanly, with no risk of stuttering. It wasn’t about preference. It was about survival.
And so, even something as simple as lunch became a daily reminder that I was different—that my words didn’t always obey me.
Living With the Aftermath
I made it through school. On paper, I did fine. But inside, I carried a shadow of those years.
Even now, as an adult, I live with the residue of that childhood. The low confidence. The instinct to second-guess. The voice in my head that still wonders if I somehow deserved it all.
But I also carry something else.
Persistence.
I didn’t give up. I kept asking for help even when the world around me seemed indifferent. I stayed kind when I was told to be cruel. I kept moving—even when I was scared every day.
And somehow, that small act of surviving… became its own kind of strength.
If You’re Still Carrying It Too
If any part of this sounds like your story—if you were bullied, blamed, ignored, or made to feel small—I want you to know this:
You are not the problem.
You never were.
You didn’t deserve it.
You’re not broken. You were just a child trying to make sense of a world that failed you in the moments you needed it most.
It’s taken me years to start healing. To even talk about this. But this story—my story—is no longer something I carry in silence.
And if you’ve been carrying something like this too… maybe it’s time to tell your story as well.