Overcoming fear

There is a particular kind of silence that exists backstage before a performance — not the peaceful, meditative sort one might find on a quiet beach at dawn, but rather the anxious, prickly kind that buzzes around your ears like an overly confident mosquito that knows you are too distracted to swat it. That was the silence I sat in, hunched over a plastic container of porridge that had congealed slightly at the edges.

It was my mother’s porridge. The same one she sold every morning at our hawker stall, the same one she stirred with the resigned determination of someone who has learned the universe will never grant them an off day. It was thick, honest food. Simple, peppery, slightly overboiled, and it sat in my stomach like a warm, anxious stone.

All around me, girls floated past like glittery dragonflies, adjusting their makeup and running through vocal warm-ups with terrifying confidence. Some were singing scales so high that small dogs outside the studio had started howling in confusion. One of them had a vocal coach in tow, another had apparently flown in from a regional competition where she had “almost” won, as if that were a badge of honour. Their mothers brought them fried chicken and bubble tea. I had my porridge. It was not glamorous, but it had soul which, as I had been told repeatedly by people who sold motivational mugs, was the more important thing.

The problem, however, was that soul is difficult to measure in decibels. I had come alone. My mother had said she would try to make it, but the stall was short-staffed, and the lunch crowd was unpredictable, mostly because it had no idea how to form a line and tended to argue over the last dough fritter like it was a rare gem. So, “try” meant I should not expect her, but she would feel guilty enough to say she tried.

Then the competition began.

The contestant before me was dazzling. She wore a jumpsuit that looked as though it had been stitched from disco balls and confidence. Her voice filled the studio with operatic precision, ending on a note so high it could have summoned mountain goats. The judges clapped. The audience whooped. Somewhere inside me, a small voice said, “Let us go home.”

But it was too late. My name was called and my wobbly legs decided they could at least walk to the microphone even if the rest of me had quietly collapsed.

I stepped into the lights and was immediately assaulted by their judgemental brightness. The microphone stand was too tall. Someone fixed it. I forgot to say thank you. I remembered every mistake I had ever made since birth. And then I began to sing.

Or, more accurately, I tried.

What came out was a confused arrangement of vowels that resembled a musical note only in the vaguest of terms. It cracked, wobbled, and disappeared like a shy ghost. The second line was worse. The silence from the audience was not hostile, not yet, but it had begun to curdle.

I could not look at the judges. I did not belong here. I was a girl with crooked teeth and thick glasses, wearing an outfit my mother had ironed at 3 a.m. because she had burnt the first one. I was, at best, a footnote in someone else’s talent show.

And then, in the middle of that wide, terrifying sea of faces, a hand waved.

At first, I thought it might be some sort of delusion brought on by nerves and starch, but then I saw it clearly — a placard, wobbling slightly, with letters that tilted and leaned in uncertain directions. “GO MY GIRL”, it read, with absolute conviction and very little punctuation.

It was my mother.

She had come. She had somehow closed the stall, caught a bus, and battled through the crowd, still wearing her apron. Her hair was tied back hastily, and in one hand she held that placard like a knight raising a banner. In the other hand, she carried a plastic bag. Inside it, unmistakably, was porridge.

Of course it was.

I do not know if it was the sight of her, the smell of soy sauce that clung to her sleeves, or the fact that she had never, ever let me give up on anything without a long, exhausting lecture first — but something changed.

I closed my eyes, and I sang.

The notes came this time not from the throat, which is where panic lives, but from somewhere deeper — a place shaped by early mornings, ladles of broth, and lullabies hummed over boiling pots. My voice steadied. It expanded. It rose. It remembered itself.

The audience fell quiet again, but this time they were listening. There was a cheer from the back row. Then another. When I reached the final note, strong and soaring, they applauded so loudly that the floor trembled slightly beneath my feet.

When I came offstage, my mother caught me in a hug that smelled of sesame oil and unspoken worry.

“You made it,” I whispered.

She beamed, slightly breathless. “I ran. I dropped one container. A man shouted at me. I did not care.” Then she thrust the packet of porridge into my hands. “Eat. You need strength.”

Later, when the lights had dimmed and the last contestant had sung, I sat beside her and ate every spoonful. It was slightly cold, a little watery from the journey, and quite possibly the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.

That night, I did not just learn how to sing under pressure, or how to face an audience full of strangers. I learnt something far more valuable. Fear does not vanish in the face of courage. Sometimes it lingers, heavy and trembling until someone reaches through it with a hand that says, “You are not alone.”

The applause or shiny outfits or the trophy I did not win? They are not important. What truly is important is the congealed porridge, the crooked sign, and a love that runs through traffic to get to you on time.

If the world ever doubts that — well, the world clearly has never had my mother’s porridge.

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A common picture given is that of a microphone or a stage, and immediately, students launch into the usual narrative of how a protagonist habours a fear of public speaking and then predictably in the most pedestrian manner, closes off with how a buddy gives a small pep talk that would bewilderingly allow the protagonist to break free from the chains. The real issue lies in formulaic storytelling, where students fall into well-worn grooves: fear, a shaky start, a conveniently timed pep talk, and a sudden, almost miraculous transformation. This type of narrative often lacks emotional authenticity because it tells a story that feels borrowed. It is neat, predictable, and largely unearned. The model is a simple story about how love oversomes fear, and one of the biggest difference in this composition is the huge reduction in the usage of emotive phrases. If you compare this with the previous compositions, you would sense a great shift in sentimentality. The writing is not cloying or heavy, offset by dry wit and literary devices. Dry wit is not decoration. It is a reflection of how a narrator processes the world. It works only when the writer has something unique or emotionally truthful to say, and when that truth is delivered with control. The problem with dry wit is that it requires subtlety, restraint, and a well-developed narrative voice, all of which are difficult to master, especially for young or developing writers, and I hope this model would open their world up. Red highlights are there to help you keep track of the development of a mother's sacrifice. Emboldened words are there to signal the usage of humour. Green highlight to remind students that is it absolutely important to link back to the question

Composition Analysis: Click here!

This composition would also fit, with the right adjustments, the follow questions/themes:

• someone that inspires you

• a proud moment

• a competition

• a memorable incident

• an unforgettable experience

• trying something new

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