PAPER BOAT & CRUISE SHIP

Being a Toastmaster has made me realise something interesting. It’s not just about writing and delivering speeches—and sometimes, the lessons come from unexpected places.

Recently, I was listening to a song by Sai Abhyankar, an artist who is now in the limelight. While listening to his song, a thought came to my mind.

Writing a good speech and delivering it is so similar to composing and performing a song. It’s not just about having the content—it’s about how you bring it to life, how you make it reach people.

And that brings me to something else I’ve been reflecting on lately: overthinking and comparison—the silent weeds that grow wild in our minds if we don’t notice them.

At any point in your life, have you looked at someone else’s success with a polite smile, but deep inside wondered…

Why not me? Why not the success meant for me?

That question kept echoing in my head as I sat down to write this.

As you scroll, you’ll see a picture of a majestic cruise ship that I’m including here.

Take a moment to look at it. It looks perfect, doesn’t it? So carefully built, so detailed. Think of the pride the owner must feel. Think of the sleepless nights, the hard work, the planning—the many hands that shaped it.

And now it floats. Not only does it float—it serves its purpose. Carrying people to distant destinations, giving them a remarkable journey.

It truly deserves applause.

Now let me take you back to a childhood memory.

I was a little girl. It was raining outside. Rainwater flowed freely in front of our old house in Kanyakumari. A simple house, with mud-tiled roofs, coconut trees around, and a cattle shed nearby.

I sat on the veranda—the open space where you can sit and watch the rain. The smell of wet earth, the rhythm of the drops, the peaceful joy of childhood.

That day, I took a piece of paper, folded it into a paper boat, and placed it on the flowing water.

(I’ll share a picture of a paper boat here too—a simple one, just like the one I made that day, but this time I’ve written my joy inside it.)

And it floated.

No audience. No destination. No purpose.

Just me. And my joy.

Now fast forward to life here in Singapore. I attended a community chat hosted by a famous author—winner of the Singapore Literature Prize for her debut novel.

Since I have a little dream of becoming a writer myself, I decided to read her book before attending the event.

Her writing amazed me. Every word painted pictures like a movie in my mind. It didn’t even feel like a debut. It felt like something written by someone who had done this for years.

Then I thought about my own writing—just a small habit I started recently. 40 pages. Not a professional book. More like, “I woke up. I did this. I did that. I slept.”

Those 40 pages once made me feel proud. But after reading her work, they suddenly felt blunt.

I started asking myself:

What kind of writing is this? Who will read it? Should I just stop writing? That’s comparison and overthinking—at their peak.

Then a line from To Kill a Mockingbird came to mind. Atticus Finch says:

“You never really understand a person until you climb into their shoes and walk around in them.”

And in that moment, I realised—I had climbed into her shoes. But I had forgotten to wear mine.

(When I delivered this as a speech, I pointed to my sandals placed aside, then slipped them back on. For this blog, just imagine me doing that. Imagine that moment of stepping back into your own shoes.)

Slowly, the truth became clearer.

That author? She holds a PhD in Creative Writing. She must have trained her words like a dancer trains her steps. She built her cruise ship over years of hard work.

And me? I had just started. I had only just folded my first paper boat—one inscribed with my own little joys.

I shouldn’t compare my small spark to her lighthouse—that stands tall, shines bright, and reaches far.

My words may not win an award. But they can still be read. They can still be felt. They may not shine on bookstore shelves, but they can still heal someone’s heart.

And that… is enough.

So, coming back to that question—Why not me? Why not the success meant for me?

This is my paper boat. It still carries my joy.

And I should never compare this joy to someone else’s long journey of building a majestic cruise ship.

Water your mind, not the weeds.

This is my favourite speech I have ever written. A speech that is so close to my heart—and one that has the power to heal me every time I read it.