THE STRENGTH TO BEGIN

Some battles are silent. Some victories breathe!

_____ Shaheda Yasmeen, inspired by the quiet strength of teachers

The alarm screamed. I pressed snooze — but it wasn’t the phone that needed more time. It was my body, wanting to rest a little longer. Some people think strength looks like victory. For me, strength looks like standing — standing strong for a hectic day, standing strong to shape young minds, standing strong to change lives.
Though my neck cracked like a warning, I still wore my dupatta neatly. I looked into the mirror and saw myself. I saw a teacher who had just brushed away her weakness and illness and seemed as fresh as a blooming flower — my eyeliner playing hide and seek with the hollowness of my eyes, the facial makeup camouflaging my drooping face. I had to wake up for myself, for my students, whom I taught confidence on days when my own body refused to cooperate.
I reached the college gate, just like any other day. Some mornings, reaching the gate feels like finishing a marathon — yet it is still marked as “late.” Just a few minutes late — but the biometric machine never asks “Why?” It does not see the fight behind those minutes. I lose casual leaves the way people lose pens — quietly, repeatedly, and helplessly. But losing a leave won’t restrict me from entering the class or giving my best to my students. After all, I am just a human being and not a superwoman. I am allowed to be imperfect.
When I entered the class, I forgot all my disabilities to ensure my students got the most from me. They are my strength, my support system. I may have a pack of stationery, if I need a single pen, as they are ready with theirs, I have a team of volunteers ready on their toes, if there is an event around, I have hands before I even ask.
That day was Misha’s birthday. Her parents brought a cake and gifts for her classmates as a surprise, and her happiness seemed loud on her face. Her mother said that being the only child, she enjoys the privilege of a princess.
The day ended smoothly. Lying on my bed, Misha’s happy face crossed my mind and spread a smile across mine. Suddenly, tears slipped down my cheeks and found comfort in my pillow. Yes, I was also a lone child — the princess of my parents. My every wish was their priority.
My mind revived those happy moments… and suddenly, a car bumped into a streetlight pole.
I screamed.
That day was my birthday. We were returning from my birthday celebration. Dad was happily driving at high speed at my request, and I was thrilled to see our car overtaking others. Mom kept warning us. Then — the crash.
My parents died on the spot.
I was taken to the hospital and remained under treatment for three months. My aunt took care of me until she breathed her last. That night felt horrifying even in memory. I couldn’t sleep. I switched off the alarm the next morning and stood strong for another day of life — just to be with my students, who had become my family.
I never married. I couldn’t gather the courage to lose anyone again. I chose to remain single.
The race continued every day — the race of commitments, targets, accomplishments. No matter how weak you are, how stressed you feel, how torn you are inside — you gather yourself. That became my mantra.
On the day of the Merit Award Ceremony at the college, I felt renewed passion for my profession. One of our alumnae was invited to speak. I watched her confidently walk to the podium, her gait steady, her words powerful. No one could believe she was the same timid girl who once wouldn’t whisper even to the girl sitting beside her.
Today she stands as a confident orator and a law student, winning debates and leading with conviction. Her transformation from a fragile girl into an exemplary speaker speaks volumes. Somewhere in that journey, I knew I had played a small part.
There are many such stories. Some fade with time. Some cling close to the heart.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into years. I bid farewell to students of many academic sessions.
Then one morning, I couldn’t gather the courage — even though the alarm screamed loudly. I had high fever and was coughing uncontrollably. Instead of gathering my broken spirit, I decided to take leave and visit a doctor. I called my friend Naina because I could barely get up from bed. I texted Principal Ma’am requesting leave.
Within an hour, we were at the hospital. The doctor advised diagnostic tests. By evening, the reports arrived — and the outcome was frightening. My left lung was severely damaged and required a transplant.
For a lone teacher, affording nearly forty-five lakhs was beyond imagination.
I did not ask, “How can we arrange it?”
I asked, “How much time do I have?”
In simpler words — how many breaths are left?
The thought was devastating. I drifted into a deep, heavy sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in the ICU. I saw happy faces waving at me — some familiar, some not. I only remembered the doctor saying, “Congratulations, Ma’am. You have won the battle.”
For a moment, I thought I had been taken to Jannah — rewarded for changing lives, finally resting in peace.
The next morning, a nurse checked my vitals. I asked her softly, “Do we have hospitals in Jannah as well?”
She giggled. “You are still in this world, Ma’am. You underwent a successful lung transplant. You are stable now.”
“Seriously? But how? Who made the payment?”
“Please rest,” she said gently.
Days passed — days without targets, deadlines, or snoozing alarms.
Then one day, a nurse smiled and said, “You are very lucky, Ma’am. Not everyone has students like yours.”
Before I could ask more, she left.
Soon Naina entered with a bright smile. “Look who is here to see you!”
Principal Ma’am walked in. “How are you feeling now?”
“I’m fine, but…” I stammered.
“Your students didn’t wait,” she said softly. “They acted — with the confidence you instilled in them.”
I didn’t understand.
After they left, I asked Naina for my phone. I switched it on.
Hundreds of notifications.
Instagram flooded with my students’ videos. Old classroom pictures. Fundraising posts. Messages. Current students and alumnae had started a donation drive for my treatment. The campaign grew. Management contributed. Teachers supported. The city responded.
One video carried the caption:
“For the woman who taught us to breathe through fear.”
I couldn’t stop my tears.
Naina smiled. “You became the talk of the town. Everyone prayed for you.”
“I thought I had spent my life giving,” I whispered. “I didn’t know I had been investing.”
That day, I was discharged.
The alarm rang as always. I snoozed — not because my body wasn’t ready, but because I woke up before it rang. Not because the pain was gone, but because hope was louder.
I placed my hand on my chest and felt the steady rhythm beneath it.
Each breath carried more than air — it carried gratitude.
And that was enough to begin again.