Issue #01
"Being Heard"
February 2026
Creative
prim girl
by Aisha
I was told once to
keep quiet. Be still. Like a
prim girl drowned in
silence.
A poetic adaptation based on the novel
Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys.
by Claire Li
They call me Bertha.
But my name is Antoinette.
They say they’re giving me a new home.
But I am alone.
They say I am beautiful.
But no one’s seen me since.
They say they love me.
But I don’t feel any warmth.
They say I need help.
But I just want to go home.
They say they can help me.
But I am locked up.
They want me to stay still, to stay quiet.
But I refused.
So they call me mad.
But I am not mad.
I see her, and I see my home.
So I burned them and I jumped.
The power of silence,
how can you make people feel heard?
by Eliette
Modern society teaches us to be outspoken, to voice our opinions, and never be afraid to speak up. While this is an invaluable skill that everyone should work on and enhance, not everybody is naturally inclined toward being the loudest voice in the room. Speaking out is a strength, but there exists a profound power in silence. Without attentivepeople to listen, no idea or solution could truly take shape. For voices to be heard, someone must first be willing to listen.
In schools, teachers often stress the importance of being an “active learner.” What is an active learner, you may ask? An active learner is a student who engages actively in the lesson by answering and asking questions, participating in group discussions, and applying information learned to form new ideas. Yet before someone can engage actively, one must first learn to listen, something usually dismissed as “passive learning” While some teachers might view this learning method as having too little interaction, this stage cultivates important qualities like attentiveness, empathy and patience. By sitting quietly and absorbing information, students can internalise information and connect with others deeply. To allow others to be heard, we have to learn to listen, genuinely without interruption, without distracting ourselves.
That being said, being a good listener doesn’t mean constantly remaining silent. Even if you listen more than you speak, it's important to reach inside yourself and find the confidence to voice your opinions. Being a good listener and knowing when to stay silent will make you an empathetic and patient person, while being confident and knowing when to speak will make you a great speaker, someone many people will genuinely enjoy engaging with.
So, I urge you to challenge yourself in a conversation this week. If you are a naturally talkative person, take a step back, pause and listen to the other person's thoughts and experiences before offering your own. If you think you tend to stand back in conversations, take the lead; pitch your ideas, because they are worth being heard.For both the listener and the speaker, balance is where true connection starts.
Heard
by Elyse
Being heard means more than merely having someone pay attention to your spoken words. It signifies that your thoughts, experiences, and presence are appreciated and respected. For girls and young women, voicing their opinions requires additional bravery in areas where their contributions have frequently been ignored. This is particularly evident in STEM, where stereotypes and biases continue to hinder participation and influence. However, when girls express themselves through their determination, accomplishments, or advocacy, they contribute to reshaping these environments and making them more inclusive.
In the field of STEM, girls often receive the impression that these disciplines are inappropriate for them. Recent statistics indicate that women constitute approximately 28% of the worldwide STEM workforce, with even fewer represented in sectors such as engineering and artificial intelligence (around 22%). Although girls generally achieve similar results to boys in math and science throughout their education, they tend to shy away from STEM careers due to diminished self confidence, insufficient encouragement, and subtle discouragement from teachers, peers, or media. A significant number of women with STEM degrees exit the field prematurely due to feelings of isolation, workplace bias, or environments that don’t fully recognise their value. Voicing concerns or ideas in these situations, whether it be presenting an innovative concept during a group project, addressing a biased comment, or seeking guidance from a mentor, can be daunting. When girls' voices are included, a range of viewpoints emerge, resulting in improved problem-solving and enhanced innovation. In STEM, diverse teams develop more imaginative and efficient solutions that advantage everyone.
In STEM, the road to recognition frequently begins in silence. A female may start by joining a coding club, going to a scientific fair, or asking questions in class despite feeling uncomfortable. These modest actions boost self-esteem and pave the way for more significant actions, such as spearheading a research project, giving presentations at conferences, or promoting more inclusive educational initiatives. Supportive listeners—teachers who foster interest, mentors who offer direction, and peers who magnify rather than eclipse ideas—are also essential to being heard. It is easier for females to talk honestly when schools and communities make investments in equity, including through STEM outreach programs for girls or role models who share their experiences.
Speaking in STEM is ultimately about more than just personal achievement. It propels group transformation. Opportunities for the future generation are created when a girl's lab concept is approved and enhances an experiment, or when she pushes for improved resource access and policy changes. It demonstrates that talent and ambition are not gender-specific and normalizes the presence of girls in these sectors.
Girls need genuine platforms, support, and self-belief in order to be heard in STEM. They want the inner assurance that their opinions are important, even in the face of doubt, in order to speak. Increasing the representation of girls in STEM fields is crucial for advancement, innovation, and equity. STEM becomes a field open to all ability and genuinely reflects everyone's potential when more ladies have the courage to speak and more people learn to listen.
How Literature Influences Social Change
by Emma
One way where oppression is challenged, female voices are amplified, and real world change happens is through literature. Zora Neale Hurston, an African American author, and civil rights activist, explored this through her literature published during the Harlem Renaissance. Her experiences of extreme poverty and racism, drove her to write her bestselling novel Their Eyes Were Watching God. Although Hurston did not receive proper credit for her work, currently, Their Eyes Were Watching God is now regarded as a pivotal change to female empowerment.
Janie Crawford, a mixed race woman in early 20th century Florida narrates her path to find freedom and true love to her friend Phoeby. Janie’s grandmother finds her an older farmer with a stable income for Janie to marry, as her grandmother provides security over passion after being scarred by slavery and sexual violence. However, Janie runs off with a determined Joe Starks as she finds her marriage suffocating with no passion. Joe Stark becomes the mayor of Eatonville, but he constantly objectifies Janie, stripping her of her voice and autonomy. After Joe’s death, Janie marries a younger worker, Tea Cake, where she finally has a relationship of adventure, freedom and equality. Janie ends up feeling empowered through achieving personal fulfillment.
Their Eyes Were Watching God explores systemic barriers that silence women, such as racism, gender violence and patriarchy. Janie was reduced to a laborer or ornament in her first few marriages, where she could not feel or think freely. In our current society where men’s voices drown out women’s, this novel parallels the reality of silence in female voices. Hurston highlights how detrimental that is to women's rights and identity.
The theme of this novel is that speaking up leads to empowerment. Hurston finds ways to challenge dominant societal narratives through letting Janie actually speak for herself. The climax of the story occurs on Joe’s deathbed, where Janie tells him “You ain’t tried tuh pacify nobody but yo’self. Too busy listening tuh yo’ own big voice.” This marks Janie’s character development from being quiet and submissive to assertive, showing that speaking boldly is a path for healing and self discovery. Janie slowly develops a new identity for herself, blossoming into a new life lived to the fullest with positive influence on others.
Hurston elevates marginalized voices, and spotlights intersectional struggles. Ultimately, it advocates for girls to speak boldly, to not be afraid to speak their mind. It shows how literature is able to make a huge societal impact, and spearhead more efforts toward gender quality. One more story written, and one more story read, creates social change. I hope this book continues to inspire girls everywhere to be confident, bold, and themselves.
Butter
by Hannah L
The butter churns
You watch the heavy cream spin round and round
You learn my favourite colour, how I differ from how I sound
The harder you grip its handle
the more fervently we churn
The silence between our questions feels like the crackle before the burn
And I want to leave the kitchen,
let you mix this mess yourself, but I turned back and
realised there was no butter on my own shelf
The butter keeps grinding
and the cream turns into curds
Separate bodies begin to distance, scared before they merge
you prefer the pre-choruses and I stop asking why
I now know it’s like butter,
before its old form has been wrung dry
and I start to see it come together, I begin to see your faults
how you’ve gone through every flavour—parsley, cinnamon and salt
but still you let me churn, and still I keep pretending
I like the cold of butter, just to stop it from melting
It’s about time now, so the glass jar makes it seem
You think it’s solid; yet there’s so much more of me
you haven’t asked about, forming clumps left unlearned
the thicker you make the butter,
the deeper for it I yearn
I squeeze and twist to look just the right shape
We meet in the middle means I take up less space
but eventually the misfit and “wanting more” lessens
and “do you really know me” shrinks as a question
Is the butter friends? Is the butter lovers?
Is the butter what comes back to you when you’re full from supper?
When there’s nothing left to churn and you match the rhythm of my life
We begin to walk a little off-beat,
so the butter still tastes nice
I remember how our slippers step in syncopation, and I feel
like a single patient in a lovesick ward, unready to heal
How do I tell the next churner that last time I lay myself bare
Someone took my butter away,
when all I wanted was to share?
Discredited for Being Women
By Hannah Watkins
In a world where women are disreputed for irrelevant reasons, does being criticized mean being heard? Women, throughout history, have been “proven” wrong because of a belief, going against the ideal, or simply for who they are. The result of that has ranged from public scrutiny, violence, and shunning. Putting it simply, women are too often discredited for reasons that place a bias on their work, even when said matter has nothing to do with the case at hand. Still, many women pushed back until they were heard.
The founder of the first birth control clinic, Margaret Sanger, was and has been ignored, discredited, and shamed for her contributions. She was jailed numerous times for the “sexual” nature of contraceptive pamphlets. During her lifetime, she was discredited for going against the ideal. In modern times, people may discredit her, citing her belief in eugenics and racism. While these are very much valid concerns, in no way should they discredit her contributions. Some people might oppose birth control clinics, something that has saved hundreds of women, yet only cite Sanger’s morals as the reason.
A fellow holder of eugenic and racist beliefs, James Watson, the co-discoverer of DNA structure, is far more likely to be separated from his beliefs by society than Sanger. While he was removed from institutions and has received backlash in recent years, criticism came very late. Additionally, the vast majority of people will not say the DNA structure is wrong because of Watson’s beliefs. There is an obvious difference in how people treated both of these individuals and their accomplishments, with many people not being angry over Sanger’s beliefs but over what she represents—female voices over their own autonomy.
Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette, a French novelist, was often discredited for her scandalous personal life. On stage, she kissed her female lover during a vaudeville performance. This led to a riot starting with half of the audience protesting and authorities intervening. As a result, there was obvious opposition to “proper” women reading her works, as she was regarded as a scandalous feminine writer by some misogynist and conservative circles in the 1900s. Yet, she still pushed back. In her writing, she often wrote themes around sex, women’s roles confined in society, and marriage.
Another controversial figure of their time is Oscar Wilde. While he was not immune to public scrutiny, his work was more likely to be praised and separated from who he was as a person. At the time, homosexuality was illegal in England, and Wilde was a homosexual currently undergoing trial. Until after his trial was over, it was still fashionable to read his work. The different reactions to Colette and Wilde could be attributed to different societal norms in France and England. However, both countries have shown similarities in societal expectations and policy throughout both writers' lives, with Colette even living in a later and more accepting era than Wilde. Overall, though both of these individuals lived scandalous lives at the time, Colette had faced more scrutiny.
Rosa Parks was discredited, and attempts to downplay her character occurred throughout her life. Her work was discredited with people labeling those who pushed back against the racial order “radicals” or “troublemakers.” Parks was red-baited, which meant harassing or discrediting the validity of someone for known or presumed communist sympathies. It was a common tactic used to make the public lack trust in certain activists. Further, she received hate mail for years. Despite all of this, she kept on fighting and was heard.
This is in no way meant to say that male activists, scientists, writers, or any public person automatically have it easier since they are male. However, systematically and statistically in many societies and historical contexts—that tends to be the case. Of course men are not immune to discriminatory treatment. For example, men in minorities are more likely to experience discriminatory behavior over the ideal person (A non disabled, heterosexual male). One study by the NIH in particular found that African American men were far more likely to experience everyday discrimination than their white counterparts.
Most of these cases occurred in the west. However, there are countless examples all over the world. That is one reason why it is so crucial to talk about this topic. According to one study, around 90% of both men and women hold some sort of bias against women. Even small biases can work harmfully against women, discrediting them. We see through the lens of three famous women how attempts at disreputing them have occurred. Now, I urge you to take a moment to think about what we do not see.
A Drink for Two
By Jamie Zhou
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The door knocker made contact with the ebony wood. Connected to the simple, circular knocking mechanism was a lion head reflecting the faint light of the clouded moon above. Its upturned, metallic eyes stare straight forward, which happens to fall right around the girl’s stomach — Menacing, it was, with its mouth half-opened and sharp canine teeth poking through.
17 Creekshire Lane. It was engraved at the base of the lion.
In this long-abandoned neighborhood where graves outnumber trees, it is silent if not for the faint chirps of insects and the billowing of wind.
But what comes towards Magdalena is anything but normal.
It is silent, but she can feel it moving.
A change in the temperature; the slight swirl of mists around her as if it wants to swallow her whole; The chirps fade — the crickets have forgotten how to sing.
Her pulse quickens. She stares at the door, and knows it's staring back.
And then it opens.
Backlit by the chandelier in the living room stands a shadow almost as tall as Magdalena itself. She managed a weak wave, which was not reciprocated.
“Come in,” it said. A voice muffled by the door breaks the surface tension of silence like a single pebble dropped within a pond, sounding a barrage of ringlet currents rolling within Magdalena’s body, “It’s cold outside.”
The shadow steps back into the light, and it is as though she’s been set aflame. Sharp brown eyes piercing deep like a hawk’s, curls framing her face like the crests of molten gold the moment before the sun sets beneath the horizon. She wears an oversized hoodie with a white print that has been through so many washes it is utterly indiscernible and grey sweatpants that stretch low, covering her feet.
The woman, so ordinary yet so odd, smiled.
“It is,” Magdalena said, stepping through.
***
When the woman pressed her teeth against Magdalena’s neck, she was taken back to all the other times they have done it before. As she stood there, tethered to her through flesh and bone in such close proximity, she could feel the woman bleed on to her like determined droplets of paint blooming on a piece of white paper. From the way her soft, unruly curls brushed against her to the unusual stillness of the woman' s heart. So guarded and lonely, yet so close it was only just out of reach. In return, Magdalena found herself tainted by her. The pitter-patter of her beating heart slowed to a saunter in harmony as the woman drained the contents of her veins. She knew that it could very well stop, that was the case when the woman was taken from her, dooming her to the same curse she had once received centuries ago. Her nerves tingled for her to pull away, yet it was a fruitless venture. Even if she had tried, she would not be able to. For this creature, this woman, who held Magdalena’s life between her teeth, was a trained predator.
She held for less than a minute, but the ritual felt like an hour at the least.
Finally, just when Magdalena was beginning to feel they would be bound forever, the woman let go.
No blood spray. Her jugular, in an act of medical miracle, had closed almost instantaneously.
The woman gave a small smile as she reached in her pockets to find a pristine white handkerchief. As she pressed it to her mouth, red blossomed on the surface.
Hollow. She staggered slightly, hand finding its place on the bookshelf nearby to steady herself.
“Take a seat,” The lioness said. Her ice-cold hand came in contact with Magdalena’s, guiding her towards the plush maroon couch nearby. She sat down obligingly, feeling her weak body swallowed whole into the soft cloudy material, “Tired, aren’t you?”
She lolled her head back, “Yes. Did all my packing in one day. Suitcase in the lobby right now.”
“What a busy life,” the woman remarked.
Magdalena rolled to her side, “What is on for today?”
“Steak, as usual.”
“Sounds good,” Magdalena responded.
***
Only less than half an hour later, Magdalena was sitting at the end of the dinner table. It was ornate, but used with scratches and water-logged stains littered on the oak grains. Decorating the table was a tablecloth, with swirls of crimson petals resembling dismembered roses. Although there had been enough room for an entire wine party, there were only two sets of gold-foiled cutlery present, along with two glasses of red wine filled to the rim of the glass. They were placed on the two ends of the table. The entire arrangement was lit by a glistening chandelier above.The woman and Magdalena sat face to face, a good meter between them and yet the positioning almost felt uncomfortably intimate, if they had not been sat in the same spot dozens of times over the course of four years.
Magdalena picked up her knife, metallic with light from the chandelier reflected through its ragged edges, and began carefully slicing the meat. The knife cut through with only a few passes, revealing the juicy interior of a steak that was crisp on the outside, but pink and tender on the inside. Using her fork, she gently put one of the cut up pieces into her mouth. Most steaks, mostly the ones she had at fancy university functions that dragged on for way too long, made her work for every bite. This one, one touch and it felt as though it was melting into her mouth. Magdalena looked up in satisfaction, meeting the smile of the woman sitting from her.
The delicate plate in front of the woman is empty. The dim overhead light casted shadows below the woman’s brow bone, yet she could feel her gaze concentrated on her. She watched as Magdalena took in small bites. After all, she has already eaten, and could not savor the very dishes she created. Perhaps to her own dismay, Magdalena thought. There was a faint sadness within the woman’s eyes as she gazed tentatively that Magdalena had begun to recognize after the third or fourth time, but was not sure she would ever understand for herself. The woman watched Magdalena, as Magdalena watched her. Two women staring at one another, with not one uttering a word.
Despite the woman’s inability to appreciate it, her cooking was always immaculate. It was as though every sentence of every cook book ever written were carved into the creases of her calloused hands. She knew, in a matter of intuition, just the correct amount of sprinkled salt, the timing of meat searing down to the millisecond. Her cupboard, an undistinguished closet of wood, contains whole whirlwinds of aromas upon opening. It was what kept Magdalena coming back — at least at the start.
Magdalena had once asked the woman for the recipe, that night she made her amatricana pasta so delicious she would gladly betray her family. The woman shook her head. There was no recipe in written form, and apart from that, she would not elaborate.
“For all of us who have started anew, our past lives have a habit of inserting itself back in, either by deliberate force or by subtle influences,” she had said when Magdalena had tried to force the question.
As Magdalena took more bites of the perfectly cooked steak in silence, constantly meeting the glances of her not-so-secret admirer, the feeling which blossomed within her chest was… Pleasant.
***
With the chandelier light dimmed to a faint glow, they sat in the darkness together.
“So,” The woman started, “What are the plans?”
“Short term or long?” Magdalena responded, sipping on her red wine.
The woman considered for a moment. Magdalena could picture her, despite the dark, lolling her head side to side in the pondering gesture she would make, “Both.”
“Hm… I’m flying to Canada tomorrow, as you know. I’ve rented a flat near the beach, where I can see the sun rise and dip below the horizon.”
“That is very important.”
“I know. I’ve got my job lined up. It has always been my dream to build robots for a living. I’m hoping to get a promotion to senior technician in three years. In that time, I hope I’ll find some people to click with. Maybe a special someone if I’m lucky.”
The woman laughed softly.
“Okay, maybe a not-so-special someone, then. Most likely, I’ll just adopt some cats, and become one of those eccentric cat ladies whose house everyone avoids. That’s when I get a place of my own though. Somewhere quiet in the suburbs.”
“Dogs are far more useful than cats.”
“Well,” Magdalena retorted playfully, “I love them all the same. And maybe before settling down I’ll travel somewhere.”
“Where, exactly?” The woman asked with an air of playfulness.
“Not sure. Probably Europe.”
“I went to Nice once.”
“Really? When? Was it fun?”
“Don’t even mention it. It felt like a lifetime ago, when I was around your age, I think. And no, it was not for leisure, but I do remember the city to be quite radiant.”
“Are we talking decades or centuries… Or even… Millennials? I mean I don’t want to assume.”
“A very long time, that is all you need to know.”
“Okay, if you say so. Hm… And maybe during one of those trips… I’ll go back home.”
“Mhm.”
“Just drop by and say hi. You know, maybe when the wounds grow old.”
“Planner, aren’t you?”
Magdalena smiled. It was almost surreal, sitting here, on her last night before flying. To think that she was talking about her future. To think that she now wanted one, now had one.
It had been almost four years since she first stepped on to the Crowood campus, getting by on an all-inclusive scholarship and the seat of her pants. A fresh start, it was supposed to be, but the only fresh things were the tears she wept as her old wounds followed her on to the bustling campus. Drunk, and completely disorientated, she ended up in a town at the far corner of the Crowood region.
Magdalena could not recall the details. Whether she knocked first, or whether the woman felt her presence coming long before and expected her. Either way, in this antique mansion, she found a home, alongside a woman whose shadow stretched far beyond her stature. Who differentiated people based on taste, Magdalena’s being akin to salted caramel. Who cooked dishes she could not eat for herself.
At first, the meetings were based on whims. A gloomy day, a bad exam, a call from one of her parents begging her to return. The woman — though often unable to provide solutions to her multitude of problems — was always there to listen.
Then it became an event of its own. Every Saturday, at 9PM, Magdalena showed up without question. And the woman, always there for she could not leave, never bothered to force her out.
And even as she grew beyond her shell, gained friends, found love in others, more seemly places than a rundown town, there was something that kept her returning to 17 Creekshire Lane. Perhaps that was magic, the magnetic pull that always brought her back.
“I think, I am envious,” the woman said at last.
Magdalena said nothing, and sipped her wine.
She laughed dryly, “Of course, there is no fix for my situation, and I am satisfied with it. A solitary life is better than none.”
Magdalena nodded.
“But… It gets… Tiring, exhausting even. This time I have, it once brought me such freedom, and yet now it means nothing to me anymore. If I only had your opportunity… Perhaps… I could…”
The woman trailed off. She was thinking of someone else, and Magdalena knew. She had seen her portrait locked behind closets and drawers. A snapshot frozen in time, while its real form pushes daisies. “I am sorry,” Magdalena said, for she did not know what else to say.
“Don’t be. There is too much sorrow already. This new life you will lead, it sounds… Beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
***
“What are you going to do since I’m going to be gone?” Magdalena asked.
The woman shrugged, as though the question she asked was foolish, “The same I’ve always done. Do not worry.”
“I’ll always remember you,” She said.
The woman nodded, “Me too.” Yet, out of the two, her words carried far more implications.
There is not much Magdalena will ever know about the woman. But sometimes, on a cold candlelit winter night, she can still taste the myriad of flavors on her tongue, and remember the warmth given from a woman who had long lost it.
ONE
The cafeteria was crowded, hot with the breath of a thousand sixth graders packed into one building like sardines. The hall hummed with chatter, each table equally loud and boisterous. My shoes squeaked against the linoleum tiles of the floor, pink lunchbox swaying in my grip. I watched as, like a practised dance, my classmates dispersed, navigating to designated seats next to their friends. Feeling like I’d been left behind the choreographer of this movement, I shuffled quietly through the rows of tables, searching for an empty table. This was my routine, awkwardly shafted to one of the empty tables in the back of the cafeteria, listening to the hum and buzz of the other tables while mine was completely silent.
My eyes widened in horror as I realised that today, no such empty tables existed. Running through my mental list of options, I surveyed the rest of the cafeteria for any groups I could possibly join. I sighed, and began to reluctantly shuffle towards one of the only tables with an empty chair.
The table was loud with laughter and conversation. I shifted in my seat, something in my stomach wriggling uncomfortably as I followed their conversation. Deciding to try to join in, my words hung in the air, weak, already overpowered by the buzz of the conversation.
The rest of the table continued talking.
I repeat myself, a little louder this time, trying to make eye contact with the girl sitting across from me. She looks away from me, laughing at something the girl next to me has said. I had half a mind to quit and focus on eating instead, but I decided to try again, just one more time.
I made my one last attempt, loudly this time. Nobody reacts. My face reddens.
Across the floor, an empty table has opened up. I excuse myself quietly, taking my lunchbox with me to sit at the back of the cafeteria, alone.
In between bites of my lunch, I resolved to never sit at a lunch table with my classmates again.
TWO
Separated into groups, I sit at a table of wood, picking at my fingernails while my group members chatter away. They rattle ideas off, back and fourth. I listen in, following their conversation like the observer of a tennis match. I look at the task written on the board: “All group members MUST participate.” The teacher has underlined and boldened the “MUST”.
I try to follow the instructions, supplying a couple of my own ideas. Neither of them even pause. Biting my lip, my face begins to burn. My shoe taps out a staccato rhythm on the floor and my fingers pick at the hem of my shirt.
I’m shouting now, my voice turning hoarse.
I wait by the teacher’s desk, face hot and eyes burning. I swallow the lump in my hoarse throat. Biting my tongue as he speaks to students who arrive after me, he addresses everyone else before he notices me.
I ask to work alone.
“Okay, why?”
I pretend to have only heard the first part of the reply, moving away to sit in the corner of the classroom.
THREE
The blow of the whistle sounded out, crisp and clear in the early morning air. “Phweet-eet!”
I tag along, running behind the group and shouting out to them as they passed the ball between each other, and not any of us. None of the girls have touched the ball yet, two minutes into the game. The squeaking of sportshoes mingle with shouts of the boys running all over the court. A throw goes wild, and the ball tumbles to the far side of the field. There is a wild chase, the boys howling and chastising each other as they race to scoop it up before their friends. I got there first. The boys behind me erupt with jeering yells, goading me to throw to them. Those on my team fall back. I call out a name, turn this way and that. When the ball leaves my hands, nobody is there. The boys on my team sigh as the ball is scooped up by the enemy boys.
I hear someone groan “C’mon! Who let her get the ball?” There is a responding chorus of agreement.
I take a waterbreak, face sizzling hot.
I will never make the mistake of running for the ball again.
FOUR
Waiting outside the classroom door, I hear the teacher dismiss her class. The door bursts open, and a torrent of students floods the hall. She doesn’t spare me a glance, but I find her in the crowd.
Trailing behind her, I make my way to the cafeteria. My shoes squeak on the tile as I shuffle through the throng of people, still following behind her as if she’s pulling on a string attached to my chest. She knows her place in the cafeteria, and takes her seat around the center of the table. Others flock to her, crowding around the table. Despite my former resolution, I sit at the corner of the lunchtable, diagonal to the girl at the center of all this.
She speaks to everyone but me, laughing with the rest of the table. I fall back into my habit of following the conversation silently, now knowing better than to try to comment. The subject changes wildly, drifting from one topic to another. Most involve our classmates; unsavoury details about their characters, the latest news of their parents, and whispers about teachers’ personal lives. I’m mildly interested at best, but I listen along.
Picking at my lunch, I feel a sudden chill. My ears start burning.
“Oh my god, Monica, that’s so dumb!”
I look up at the speaker; a girl sitting on the opposite side of the table.
I hear a chorus of giggles from the rest of the table. I look at the speaker, feeling my stomach sink. I lose my appetite.
“Yeah, I can’t believe you’ve stayed in this school through grade school.”
The girl in the center is the one speaking now, and I’m a deer realising it’s wandered into a wolf pack.
I nod, and laugh along.
Everyone leaves before I finish lunch.
I pack up my snacks, trailing along behind her like an unwanted puppy following someone on the street.
I come to hate eating lunch with my best friend. My only friend.
FIVE
I’m the only one speaking, but the teacher listens with rapt attention, responding in an instant to my points. For the first time, I find myself speechless, content to listen of my own volition.
The conversation feels like a game of soccer, but for the first time, I get to kick the ball.
My classmates are listening to me. They want to hear me speak.
I highlight English class on my weekly schedule.
-
ONE
My group was arguing, and I watched the flow of the conversation tip from one side to the other.
I notice how it never tips to one side.
“Hey, let her talk first, then you can go.”
By Monica
What does it mean to be
Heard?
By Nicole Ching
It is not the echo of your voice
Bouncing back from a canyon wall,
a hollow copy of the noise,
a ghost of a sound that quickly falls,
Meaning almost nothing at all.
It is the silence, soft and deep,
that holds your words as they fall,
a quiet place where they can seep.
where your truths, even when not spoken,
It is the moment you realize your soul
has been seen,
Vulnerable and whole,
Where your truths, even unspoken,
are not hastily dismissed,
not left, lying, broken.
It is the bridge – invisible, strong,
A place that speaks, not in words,
but in the feeling of quiet protection,
of security and shelter.
It does not question where you are going,
only asks that you start to cross.
To be heard is to be witnessed,
not to be solved, or altered, or critisized.
To be heard is a burden being gently alleviated,
to find your truth has been accepted,
received, or even just recognized.
To be heard is to be understood
By Shi Qi
I wasn’t always like this. The girl they recognised as argumentative, the girl they recognised with a confident voice, the girl they recognised who could speak her mind.
In fact, I was the opposite. Because I wasn’t heard.
To be heard is to be understood. My timid little 3-year-old self trembled in the uniform that was two sizes too large for me, my clothing accompanied by a complicated hairstyle that almost always included two tight ponytails strapped to the sides of my head. I was late again during morning prayer, and so I was gifted the stamp of shame across my student handbook. And every morning I would open my handbook without question, a reminder of my incompetence. And every morning the principal would give me the same old talk about tardiness.
I started to ponder—why was I late to school? I was already up considerably early and allowed myself half an hour to walk to school, which was more than enough. Then it clicked. Every morning right before I stepped out the door, my aunty would always notice something wrong with my hair and sit me down to redo it. Ouch!
But then I suppose beauty is pain, and she was marvelous at making me look my best. So I don’t blame her for making me late because she was just doing her job (quite well, in fact).
Yet at that time I probably blamed her. That was what took me to speak. Just like every other day, little me was listening to my daily morning talk when I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“But it’s not my fault that I’m late, it’s because—” I interrupted.
I still remember my principal’s face instantly turning to a shade of deep purple (just like her hair) when she hollered at me.
“Silence! No more excuses!”
I probably spoke a maximum of ten more words for the rest of the school year. So much for trying to explain myself.
To be heard is to be understood. Yet when I first joined my second kindergarten, I thought they understood me. Because I thought they understood that if I smiled at them and nodded at them it automatically meant we were friends. I didn’t speak, barely conjuring a single word. So perhaps I really wasn’t heard.
She was why I spoke. My kindergarten teacher wanted me to speak up and be heard— something she pointedly stated in her report card comments. And so I listened, finally crawling out of my shell and actively involving myself in conversations. Finally breaking through the barrier set for me and owning up to my ideas, my thoughts, my voice. It worked, because for the first time in my life I dared to speak and they dared to listen.
She was why I might’ve not spoken again. The next semester, she told me that I was “too loud for a girl” and I “regressed” as a result of speaking up. It’s funny and it’s ironic and sometimes her words still linger.
For once, I didn’t listen. Because why go back when I finally knew how it felt to be considered? To be valued. To be—dare I say— understood.
To be heard is to be understood. And now I can say that for me to speak, I have an innate desire to want to be heard.
Being Heard
By Sofia L
You don’t know you need it until you experience it.
You don’t know you need it until it’s taken from you.
But there is another situation: when you know you need it but have no way to get it.
For a long time, I was lucky enough to fit into the first two groups. The idea of needing to be heard always made me think of people who were less fortunate than I was, because most of the time, I was heard.
Lately, though, issues with my teachers started to emerge. I could talk to my friends and my family, and I thought I could talk to my teachers too. My classmates and I tried to share our concerns repeatedly, but we were dismissed. At some point, the blame even began to fall on us. Putting ourselves in a vulnerable position only to face accusations felt devastating. Gradually, I lost hope that anything would change.
At first, we believed we had power. We thought that if we explained ourselves clearly enough, we would be heard. But over time, it became clear that while some teachers seemed to respect us, we were still just children to them. Our words didn’t have the impact we thought they did. Once that realization hit, it was hard to shake off. Going to the headmaster felt like the only option left.
Before it got to that point, we had the chance to speak with a social worker. It may sound dramatic, but the feeling of someone—someone who stood at the same level as the teachers—actually understanding us was a huge relief. For the first time in a while, I felt like I could breathe again.
What surprised me most was how long it took me to recognize how badly I needed to be heard. I thought I was being heard by my friends and family. In a way, I was. But sometimes, that isn’t enough. You need someone outside the situation, someone who isn’t directly involved, someone who has the authority to listen and take you seriously. At that time, I didn’t see my frustration or hopelessness for what they were. I just carried a heavy weight with me everywhere I went. Only later did I learn to name those feelings—and understand that being heard isn’t just about being listened to; it’s about having your voice truly acknowledged.
Being Heard
By Sofia R
For a long time, I thought that speaking meant saying what you feel without fear. But I’ve learned that for many women, fear is learned early, and reinforced often.
We learn it in small ways… being told we’re too sensitive when something hurts, being encouraged to soften our words so we don’t sound rude, being praised for being easygoing rather than honest. Over time, these moments add up. They teach us that speaking clearly can cost us likability, safety, or belonging.
I remember sharing something that hurt me, after rehearsing it in my head, trying to sound calm, reasonable, not “too much.” The response was gentle but dismissive. I was told it wasn’t that serious, that I should let it go. And in that moment, I understood how silence becomes a skill, not a weakness.
So sometimes I stay quiet not because I lack a voice, but because I know the unspoken rules. Still, recognizing this changes something. The problem isn’t that I don’t know how to speak, it’s that women are often taught that being heard is conditional.
And even so, I keep speaking. Carefully, imperfectly, sometimes with a trembling voice. Because my voice doesn’t have to be convenient to be worthy. It just has to be mine.
Heard
By Yasmin P
ill teach my daughter to sharpen knives in her mouth,
to braid barbed wire in her hair,
to paint her nails with the sun of the south.
i’ll teach my daughter to infuse venom in her speech,
to walk on a minefield,
to cry tears of bleach.
my daughter will wound like a purple-blue flower,
bleed the song of a siren,
ache with the strength of april showers.
for the world is unkind to infants pushed into war:
suffering and madness and chaos galore.
the mute constructs of a world flawed by man-kind,
silence broken only when you’re left behind.
with little preparation comes the littlest death,
she would sigh with despair on her very last breath.
this daughter of mine, what a daughter she’ll be:
she’ll smile and dance and laugh with glee
and when she sings, the whole ground will soften,
and she’ll hammer the last nail into the wood of their coffin.