March 13
1208 Words
There are some fears that do not leave loudly.
They do not slam doors.
They do not announce departure.
They simply linger in the background of your becoming.
Soft. Persistent. Patient.
And every now and then, they ask:
“Have you truly outgrown me?”
For me, that fear has always had a microphone.
And a courtroom.
I have never been afraid of thinking.
I have been afraid of speaking.
Give me a textbook and I will sit with it for hours.
Give me a blank answer booklet and I will build an argument carefully, brick by brick.
Give me silence and time, and I will find clarity.
But place me before a courtroom even a simulated one and something inside me tightens.
Not because I do not know.
But because I am afraid of not knowing in front of everyone.
There is a difference.
In 100 level, we had the Freshers’ Moot.
It was based on a simple criminal matter theft under the Criminal Code. Nothing complex. No layered constitutional questions. Just basic elements: actus reus, mens rea, burden of proof.
Things we had just learned.
It was meant to help us “find our voices.”
I remember when the chambers were told to nominate representatives.
My name was submitted.
I did not protest.
I thought I could manage it.
Second speaker for the defence.
All I had to do was argue that the prosecution had failed to prove intention beyond reasonable doubt.
I understood intention.
I understood reasonable doubt.
On paper, my submissions were clean.
Issue.
Rule.
Application.
Conclusion.
But advocacy is not paper.
Advocacy is exposure.
The night before the moot, I stood in front of my mirror and practiced:
“May it please this honourable court…”
Even alone, my voice sounded unfamiliar.
Too soft.
Too unsure.
I imagined standing in front of seniors who already spoke Latin like second language. Seniors who laughed easily, who carried themselves with ease.
What if I said “actus reus” incorrectly?
What if I mixed up a case name?
What if I blanked out?
Worse what if I spoke, and it simply wasn’t impressive?
Fear does not always scream, “You will fail.”
Sometimes it whispers, “You are not built for this.”
The morning of the Freshers’ Moot, my hands were cold.
The courtroom was fuller than I expected.
Black and white outfits everywhere.
Seniors seated confidently. Some smiling. Some unreadable.
When our chamber’s turn approached, my chest tightened so suddenly I felt lightheaded.
My opening line disappeared from memory.
Everything I had rehearsed scattered.
I leaned toward my chamber head and whispered the words that still sting to remember:
“I can’t do it.”
He looked confused. “What happened?”
“I’m not ready.”
It was not true.
I had prepared.
But I did not feel brave.
And in that moment, bravery felt more important than preparation.
Another member stepped in.
The moot continued.
No one scolded me.
No one mocked me.
The world did not collapse.
But something inside me did.
Because I knew the truth.
I had not been defeated.
I had withdrawn.
That afternoon, back in my hostel room, I told myself gently:
“It’s okay. Not everyone is meant for mooting.”
It sounded like self-compassion.
It was actually surrender.
From that day onward, I avoided moots.
When internal advocacy exercises came up in 200 level, I volunteered for research roles.
When class representatives asked for speakers, I suddenly became “busy.”
I told myself I was focusing on what I was good at.
And I was good at written exams.
Very good, eventually.
By 300 level, my scripts were structured. Intentional. Grounded in principle.
By 400 level, my written answers were confident enough to carry me comfortably through assessments.
When mock exams came especially the ones that required written analysis I performed well.
Even in courses like Criminal Law, where problem questions required careful reasoning, my strength showed.
But every time presentation was involved, something inside me still flinched.
In 400 level, we had a mock criminal trial exercise.
Not a competition.
Just assessment.
A simple assault scenario.
We were to argue briefly before a lecturer acting as judge.
This time, I did not back out.
But I clung too tightly to my notes.
When the lecturer interrupted me with a question, my mind stalled.
I answered but rigidly.
Afterward, my written score pulled my overall grade up.
Again.
On paper, I was strong.
On my feet, I was fragile.
Now in final year, we do not have mooting the way 100 level did.
But we have project presentations.
And though it is not mooting, it is presentation nonetheless.
Standing.
Explaining.
Defending your research before lecturers and classmates.
I’d know my research.
I’d have lived with it for months.
I’d have read judgments until they blurred.
But The same tightness.
The same question.
“What if your voice fails you?”
I have not even started practicing.
Nothing has happened yet.
No topic has even been assigned from the three we were asked to submit.
No one has called my name.
No slide has been projected.
And still, the thought of standing there was enough to awaken 100 level Elle.
Fear does not always wait for action.
Sometimes it arrives at anticipation.
I find it interesting that I can trust my mind more easily than my mouth.
Why is articulation under observation so frightening?
Perhaps because written exams are private battles.
You and your script.
Presentation is public.
Your thoughts leave you and hang in the air.
Vulnerable.
Available for critique.
There is something tender about realizing that some fears travel with you quietly through the years.
You can conquer academic doubt.
You can outgrow comparison.
You can become disciplined.
And still, the memory of one moment one withdrawal can echo.
I went back to the beginning in my mind today.
Not to criticize myself.
But to understand her that 100 level girl who stepped aside.
She was not lazy.
She was not unserious.
She was afraid of humiliation.
Afraid of being laughed at.
Afraid of confirming an insecurity she already carried.
She thought silence was safer than risk.
And maybe at 16 or 17, fresh into university, that fear was understandable.
But I am older now.
Stronger.
More anchored.
So instead of condemning her, I decided to protect her differently.
By not abandoning her again.
Presentation day is coming.
And even though I have not stood there yet, I know this much:
If my voice shakes, it will shake while speaking.
If my heart races, it will race while standing.
But I will not step aside.
Because I have learned something over the years.
Courage is not loud.
It is consistent.
It is showing up again to the place you once fled.
It is saying:
“May it please this honourable court…”
And meaning it.
Even if your voice trembles at first.
And maybe one day, when I stand in a real courtroom, my voice will not carry the echo of fear.
It will carry memory.
Of a girl who almost believed she wasn’t built for this.
And of a woman who decided she was.
And spoke anyway.
- Writer
