We lingered at the café door, clutching notebooks and nerves alike. Inside, a gentle strum of guitar mingled with the low murmur of conversation and the rich aroma of coffee. It was a space brimming with ease, but for us, every step forward felt unsteady, like toddlers daring to walk across an unfamiliar room. Our years didn’t make us immune to fear; they only made it easier to hesitate. When our name was called, the impulse to retreat was strong, but then we noticed a toddler at a nearby table, stacking sugar packets with clumsy hands. Again and again, they tumbled to the table, and each collapse was met with laughter and another attempt.

Inspired by the simple courage of that child, we walked to the microphone, our steps faltering but resolute. Words stumbled out at first, shaky and uncertain, but like a child finding rhythm, we gained steadiness with each line. The applause that followed felt less like validation and more like belonging, a reminder that trying mattered more than succeeding. As we sat back down, the toddler's joy lingered in our thoughts, their persistence mirroring the lessons we were only now learning to embrace. Life, we realized, was a series of toppled towers, rebuilt with care and laughter—proof that we, too, were still fairly new to it all.

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