I first got a taste of speaking in front of a large audience thirteen years ago.
In March 2010, I received an offer to deliver personality development classes to B.Tech. students at Subharati University, Meerut. I said yes—without any real idea of what I would speak or how I would manage it.
It’s true, I was already a trained radio jockey and voice artist. But that meant speaking into a microphone, alone in a studio, protected by walls and headphones. A classroom full of students was a different beast altogether.
The worst part came later: I had just one day to prepare for five lectures a day, for the next forty days.
I remember thinking, What have I agreed to?
Somehow, I went through with it. For forty days, I stood in front of those students and spoke. I taught. I tried to motivate.
Somewhere during that stretch, a thought settled in me—quietly, without drama—that this might be my calling.
After that session, I stayed with it for a while. I put in some work and began getting opportunities to speak—college students, technicians, even mid-management corporate employees.
And then, slowly, life intervened. Responsibilities accumulated. Attention scattered. The idea of becoming a full-time speaker didn’t collapse—it faded.
For a long time, I told myself I still had hope.
The Realization
Only much later did I see what that hope really was. I wanted the outcome, but I rarely took sustained action toward it. I kept asking myself why.
Eventually, one small realization made the difference: I had never written the desire down. I had carried it in my head, assuming that was enough.
At the time, that felt harmless. In hindsight, it wasn’t. An unwritten goal stays vague. It never asks you to commit.
When I finally wrote my goals in a diary—by hand, not typed and forgotten—something shifted. Not dramatically—just enough to notice. Reading them in the morning and again at night didn’t guarantee anything, but it removed my excuses for not knowing what I wanted.
I still ask myself why I didn’t do this earlier. Why something so simple escaped me for so long.
I don’t have a clean answer.
What I do know is this: realizing a past mistake doesn’t disqualify you from trying again. Time will pass whether you act or not. The difference is whether you choose to stay conscious as it does.
Returning to the Work
I’ve learned that losing heart never helps. It only adds another weight to carry.
When I feel stuck now, I try to return to what once mattered. Old notes. Half-formed plans. Even vague memories of what I tried before. Sometimes they don’t need to be perfected—only remembered.
Writing my goals down, reading them quietly in the morning and again at night, didn’t solve anything by itself. But it did one important thing: it stopped me from pretending I didn’t know what I wanted.
I no longer wait for clarity before putting in the work. I’ve seen that clarity often follows action, not the other way around.
Hope, I’ve realized, is complicated. It can steady you—but it can also lull you into waiting. When hope isn’t accompanied by effort, it starts to resemble avoidance.
I don’t know where the work will lead this time. I don’t even know if it will lead where I once imagined.
What I do know is this: doing nothing guarantees only one outcome.
So I work—not loudly, not dramatically—but consistently. And I pay attention to what changes as a result.