Chasing stages
Finding my voice on the stage
As children, we have all had our obsessions: dinosaurs, princesses, video games or becoming an astronaut, or something that would crack us up as young adults. Mine wasn’t a materialistic thing. It was not something that could be bought off a shelf or a dream in my head. It was a place: the stage.
I grew up chasing the spotlight the same way other kids pursued playground swings. If a school event required a narrator, I was the first to volunteer. If the yearly function required dancers, I knew the choreography before the dance teacher finished teaching it. Later, in my early teens when I discovered poetry, I treated the stage like a friend. It became a space where my words—although unsteady at first—seemed like they belonged. When debates became a part of school life, the same stage previously accommodated my pirouettes and fairytalesnow witnessed my arguments instead.
It was never the fame that I wanted,not the celebrity kind. I did not dream of interviews and red carpets. What I chased was visibility of the warm kind. I wanted to be known for my words, the work I do, to be recognized for being present, expressive, and alive.
My parents empowered the obsession, attending every school function regardless of how small it was. If a certificate had my name on it, even a simple participation ribbon, they kept it. My trophies lived in the living room until they gathered so much dust that they had to be rotated for other things. Looking back at those nostalgic moments, I can see how rare that support is and how much it matters when a child feels watched in a gentle way. My fascination with the stage came from ambition, but it was strengthened by being believed in.
As I matured, my connection with stages followed along. My dancing faded, but the words grew louder. I traded scripts for spoken word poetry, choreographies for commentary and monologues for debate speeches that echoed through packed school auditoriums. That stage became less about performance and more about communication. I was no longer just being seen, I was heard.
That shaped my academic path in ways I did not fully understand until I came to UTM.
People often question why one—deeply involved in poetry, writing and performance—would choose Criminology as a major. For me, the connection feels natural. A courtroom is in its own kind of a stage. It is a setting where voice, presence, and persuasion matter in powerful ways. The same clarity and performance I loved as a child can become a form of advocacy in real legal contexts. From freely writing, then turning them into powerful debates to developing a passion for making an impactful change in today’s world has filled an essence of the warm lights on a stage.
At UTM, I have realized that stages come in unexpected forms. A seminar where your professor asks you to defend an argument. A group project presentation in front of peers who barely know your name. A spoken word open mic with the EDSS, where the room holds the breath at the end of a poem. Even submitting articles to The Medium, something that younger me would have found absolutely petrifying, has become another version of standing under warm lights and speaking to an unseen audience.
The fascination never left, it simply evolved.
Today, I am not chasing applause, but chasing impact. I still want my name to be known, but not because I stood under spotlights. I want to be known because I used my voice, whether through writing, performance, or advocacy, to say something that mattered. I want to contribute something meaningful to the spaces I enter. I want someone to feel more comforted after reading or hearing something I created.
If anything, my childhood obsessions engraved a pathway for my future that no academic counselor in this world could have. I used to believe that I love stages because they make me feel visible. Now I understand that I loved them because they allowed communication. They let me speak, shape, question, imagine, and persuade.
As I navigate my degree, my career aspirations, and my place within UTM student life, those early hobbies feel more like a foundation than just a phase. It reminds me that voice, whether spoken or written, carries power. Childhood dreams do not always get lost in the abyss. Sometimes they simply take on a new form.
The stage just looks different now, it is a classroom, a courtroom to be, an editorial page, a poem performed at a campus event. Yet, every time I put a foot into one of these spaces, the same familiar flutter returns. The same curiosity. The same fire.
Some children dream of castles or galaxies. I dreamt of a stage.
And in many ways, I am still standing on one.
