“As the first speaker of the negative team, I strongly believe that animal testing should be banned.”

My voice still quivered, despite reciting the simple statement in front of the bathroom mirror multiple times in the past week. My nerves hijacked the conviction of the sentence, creating a slight lilt as if it was a question. In the sanctity of the bathroom, with my toothbrush as a placid audience, I remember my reflection scanning the imaginary classroom, drawing everyone in with my eyes and with the confidence of my voice. I ventured a small glance forward, and was greeted by an encouraging smile from Claire. However, the frail comfort of her smile was quickly overcome by terror under the adjudicator’s piercing gaze. I bowed my head toward the swirling ink lines of my cue cards, which trembled in my palm, as if the flimsy paper could shield me and make me invisible. Sadly, no such miracle occurred during my first ever debate speech in primary school when I was 11 years old.

It had been a month since I was reluctantly dragged into my school’s debating club by two of my wonderfully confident and articulate friends. Public speaking had always been a daunting prospect for me — I shuddered as I imagined a stage where every word felt scrutinized and every pause stretched into an eternity. I was content to tune out the club’s proceedings as I sat in the back corner of the room. That is, until Claire, our club leader, began to demonstrate a speech on a topic I’ve now long forgotten. What stuck with me was her balance — the way her words danced effortlessly between logic and passion. Her tone was steady, her posture assertive, her gaze inviting, drawing our young faces into her rhetoric.

Watching her, I forgot about my apprehension for a moment. I was captivated by the eloquence of her expression. She didn’t just state her points; she invited us into her perspective, making the topic compelling and exigent. I found myself thinking, How does she make it look so effortless?

In those early weeks, I struggled to find my footing. While brainstorming arguments, I would occasionally suggest an idea but immediately second-guess myself, unsure if it was strong or relevant. Claire, however, had an uncanny ability to see the value in even my most tentative contributions. “That’s a great point,” she would nod with a pondering frown. “Let’s see if we can expand on that.” Her encouragement was never hollow. When she commended me, she always explained why the idea worked, framing it in a way that made me feel capable. She helped my team refine those rough ideas, showing us how to strengthen them with examples and evidence. 

The most daunting part, of course, was still the public speaking aspect of debating. I had a habit of letting my nerves get the better of me, stumbling over words or losing my train of thought. Claire recognized this early on and approached it with patience. Her guidance often came in small, manageable steps. She’d have me stand up and read my arguments aloud to just her and my teammates. At first, my voice was barely audible, my eyes fixed on the paper in my hands. “Let’s try that again,” she’d say after each attempt, her tone always kind and affirmative. “This time, look up for just a second at the end of your sentence. You’ll see, it’s not scary. It’s just about practice.”

It’s just about practice. Those words echoed in my mind as I clutched my cue cards as if they were a lifeline. At the time, I didn’t understand why her seemingly unremarkable statement stuck with me. In retrospect, I realize that she had relayed an invaluable lesson: that my struggles were not the final destination but a stepping stone. She reframed my self-perceived failure as moments of progress, turning my mistakes into propellants toward improvement. To her, delivering the perfect speech was not the goal; rather, the ultimate success was simply persistence.

As I meekly concluded my arguments in the stifling classroom, I was surprised to feel a sense of triumph among my relief, embarrassment, and lingering terror. Yes, my cheeks were colored red, my hands still shook, but I had done it! In those brief minutes when my voice trembled, I leaped, with little grace but great force, from one stepping stone to the next. Taking my seat, I saw Claire mime a discreet fist bump, which I returned with an insuppressible smile. It was not a great speech, it was not even a good speech. It didn’t matter. Somehow, amidst all the doubt and the fear, I was confident that I would do better again and again.

My journey to developing my voice on the debate stage made me appreciate the importance of persistence and resilience. The true miracle of learning is an open mindset, a steadfast belief in improvement and growth. Every speech, every attempt is an opportunity to reflect on how far I’ve come, and how far I can still go. Progress is marked by moments of triumph, where I deliver my ideas fluently. However, it is also defined by my mistakes, moments when I know I can improve. After all, it’s just about practice.