Moult if you must, but soar high

An eagle at forty must choose: die or endure a painful rebirth. It breaks its beak, tears its claws, and plucks its heavy feathers. After 150 days, it soars again, renewed. This is our metaphor. We are all eagles. Life asks us to shed what no longer serves us and embrace the discomfort of growth.

My own soaring began, unexpectedly, in a math classroom. Back then, numbers were my world—formulas, red pens, neat answers. Until I met John (name changed). A first-generation learner, son of a sugarcane farmer and a tailor, his report card carried single-digit marks. His shoulders slouched, eyes fixed on the desk, handwriting cramped and broken. One afternoon, I caught him tearing up his test paper. “Why?” I asked. “So Appa won’t see,” he whispered, trembling with shame. At that moment, I knew he didn’t need formulas. He needed to be seen.

My own transformation began there. I retrained in child psychology and trauma-informed care. With John, academics paused. At dawn, we began handwriting therapy with ink pots and bamboo pens. “Your 'g' isn’t broken—it bends with grace. Leave space between words. You deserve room to breathe.” Soon, his letters straightened with pride. When the school needed 200 certificates handwritten for Independence Day, I suggested John. Teachers doubted. But by the seventh day, his script shone with confidence. On Awards Night, when the Head Boy received his certificate, the principal asked, “Who wrote this?” “John, sir.” Two hundred heads turned. John stood with ink-stained fingers and a straightened spine. That night, he rewrote not just words, but his story. His marks soon followed—and so did healing.

Later came Sneha (name changed), who hid from algebra behind English classics. “I can take on Shakespeare,” she confessed, “but maths silences me.” Together, we turned numbers into art—coloured pencils, mind maps, even poetry in multiplication. Months later, she whispered, “Ma’am, maths feels less cruel now.” She went on to score above 80% and pursue engineering.

Carl Jung wrote, “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” I realised healing isn’t about fixing—it’s about seeing. We don’t mend children by changing them; we reflect their worth until they see it themselves. Years later, in John’s office, I noticed three things: his first certificate, framed proudly; his blueprints labelled in flawless letters; and the fountain pen I once gifted him. He smiled. “You taught me words connect souls. Now I connect lives through my work.” If you remember only this: the way we talk to children becomes their inner voice. We don’t fix children. We reflect their worth. Spread your wings. Moult if you must—but soar above the sky.