I nearly didn’t submit it.
I crumpled mine up twice the night before the contest for anti-bullying posters. It wasn’t flawless. The letters were all crooked, and the drawing appeared quite silly. However, I kept thinking about the last time Jamari remarked I appeared “too soft to matter” when she cornered me close to the lockers.
I thus drew it again. remained up past the hour.
Without looking at anyone, I turned it in in the morning. I believed I had no chance. I put little notes all over the photo, and I just wanted someone, anyone, to read them. For example: “Even if your voice trembles, speak up.”
The victors were revealed at the school-wide assembly one week later. Furthermore, I genuinely believed it was an error when they called my name.
As I approached the stage on trembling legs, I noticed Deputy Langston standing beside the podium, grinning at me as if she had known all along.
She leaned over and remarked, “That took guts,” when they gave me the certificate and displayed my poster for the audience.
She then requested if I might speak to her students the following week.
I assumed she was referring to a brief visit—perhaps five minutes.
Her next statement, however, made my heart accelerate and my stomach turn.
because I understood that she wasn’t only requesting a favor.
“Wait—you want me to address your pupils?” Deputy Langston gave me an encouraging gesture as I stumbled. At the local high school, where she taught civics, it was safer to blend in and be unnoticed than to stick out. Students in high school? They weren’t particularly renowned for their tolerance or friendliness. Actually, it’s unlikely that the majority of them would give a damn if a middle schooler discussed bullying.
Deputy Langston remarked softly, “I know that seems daunting, but believe me, they need to hear this from someone who has experienced it firsthand. You don’t realize how important your story is.
Her remarks really got to me. Narrative? My existence seemed to be little more than a survival story. surviving each day without showing my true level of fear to others. However, this woman was informing me that others might find value in my experience.
I hesitated, though. “What could I possibly say?”
With firmness and kindness, she said, “You’ll figure it out.” “And I’ll be by your side the entire time.”
Nerves and second-guessing dominated the days before the presentation. I kept practicing in front of the mirror until my image began to appear irritated. Every time I thought of entering that classroom, my neck clenched and my palms began to perspire. What if I was made fun of? Or worse, disregarded me entirely?
Deputy Langston brought me up early on the morning of the lecture so we could review everything one last time. She talked about her own childhood issues as we drove, including the times she felt helpless and insignificant. In some ways, seeing her acknowledge those things helped me feel less alone. Perhaps being vulnerable wasn’t such a horrible thing.
The high school hallways were alive with activity when we got there. Ignorant of the knot in my gut, students poured out of classes, yelling and laughing. We made our way to Room 214, where we found ourselves surrounded by desks. Everyone’s eyes were on us as soon as we entered. All of a sudden, I wanted to vanish.
Before speaking to the class, Deputy Langston nodded encouragingly. “We have a wonderful guest speaker today, everyone. They are come to share something significant, and this is Riley.
The room became quiet. While some pupils slouched back in indifference, others leaned forward curiously. I inhaled deeply before moving forward.
“Hello,” I said, scarcely raising my voice above a whisper. Then, “Hello,” louder. So, my name is Riley. My poster, which recently won the anti-bullying competition, may have caught your attention around school. I felt a little more confident when a few heads nodded. “But you’re unaware of the reason I made it.”
I told them everything for the following twenty minutes. I wanted to feel like my voice mattered, so I stayed up late trying to produce something meaningful. I also talked about feeling invisible and the insults that went deeper than any fist could. There was a lengthy silence when I was done, and then the place erupted in cheers.
A girl held up her hand. “Did creating the poster make a difference?”
Initially, I was unsure of how to respond. Then I remembered Jamari, not because he had stopped making fun of me (he hadn’t), but rather because I had stopped allowing his remarks to define who I was. I said, “It changed me.” “I came to see that, despite my fear, I am capable of advocating for myself.”
Later, a number of youngsters approached me to express their gratitude. One child claimed that he was too embarrassed to inform anyone that he had been the victim of cyberbullying. Another girl admitted that she had once made fun of someone and now felt bad about it. I was astounded by their honesty. I had thought that folks like them wouldn’t get it for years. Perhaps the issue was not understanding, but rather having the guts to connect.
Deputy Langston grinned triumphantly as she drove me home. You see? You performed admirably. Your truth had to be heard by those children.
I muttered, still taking it all in, “I guess.” “However, why did you initially believe that I could accomplish this?”
She gave me a quick look. “Because the most courageous voices are sometimes the ones we least expect.” How about yours? Yours is powerful.
After a few weeks, life resumed its regular pace. But now, everyone bowed or smiled at me as I passed through the corridors. Jamari never apologized, but even he appeared to be quieter. Nevertheless, something changed—not only in how I was perceived by others, but also in how I conducted myself. I raised my stance. spoke more loudly. felt more powerful.
Then the unexpected turn of events occurred.
Deputy Langston sent me an email one afternoon. My poster had won a statewide competition that she had entered. In addition, I received an invitation to speak at a conference with other young activists who are battling bullying.
Panic was my first reaction. A meeting? In front of hundreds of people? I couldn’t possibly manage that. Then I recalled the expressions on those high school students’ faces—their vulnerability, their thankfulness. Wasn’t the dread worth it if telling my story helped make even one person feel less alone?
With my microphone in hand, I stood on the conference stage and looked around at the sea of new faces. Even though my heart was racing, I kept in mind Deputy Langston’s statement that “your truth has power.” Slowly, I started talking.
The audience cheered enthusiastically at the conclusion. After that, strangers came up to me and thanked me for giving words to situations they were unable to express. It was humble and overwhelming.
I had a startling realization that night as I lay in bed reliving the events of the day. I wasn’t proud of my presentations or my contest victories. It was the knowledge that those who needed to hear my voice—imperfect, unsteady, uncertain—had done so.
Big gestures and valiant deeds aren’t always the definition of bravery. Sometimes it’s just choosing to turn up in spite of your fear. Because someone needs to know they’re not alone someplace.
Tell your friends and family about this article if you enjoyed it. Let’s continue to convey that, despite its trembling, every voice counts. ❤️