The Ceiling Fan That Haunts Me

People think trauma comes from big accidents or tragedies.

For me, it comes from a ceiling fan.

The sound of its blades is harmless to most. For me, it is sharp, heavy, and cruel. The constant wind sound, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, drowns out voices and scatters words until they slip away. It takes my confidence, my focus, and sometimes my opportunities.

And it always happens in the moments that matter most.

At the hospital, I sit in front of the doctor. He wears a mask, already making lipreading harder, and asks me about my symptoms. I lean forward, trying to catch every word. But above me, the fan spins. The rushing wind mixes with his muffled voice, and suddenly his questions blur into noise. My ears strain, my mind panics. What if I miss something important about my health? Luckily, my mom is beside me. She listens carefully and explains everything afterward. Without her, I would leave with confusion instead of clarity.

During my practical exam, I was ready. I had studied, practiced, prepared. I believed I could do it. Then the fan started. The examiner’s words tangled with the steady wind sound. I froze. I could not hear the question clearly. My mind screamed, You know this! You know the answer! But my mouth stayed silent. That day, the fan decided my marks, not my knowledge.

In job interviews, the story repeats. I walk in with courage, but the moment I see a fan spinning above me, I already know my chances are slipping. HR asks a question, and I hear fragments. The whir of wind slices through his words. I ask them to repeat, to remove their mask, to bear with me. I see their expressions change. Confidence drains out of me. I walk away feeling rejected, not for my skills, but for the noise I cannot escape.

 

The truth is, this struggle is not limited to hospitals, exams, or interviews. It happens in public offices and banks, where I strain to hear questions about documents. It happens in train stations, where announcements disappear into the fan’s hum. It happens in counseling or guidance sessions, where soft words mix with the restless wind and leave me lost in moments that are supposed to guide my future. Even in exam halls, the spinning fans become another test, one I never signed up for.

The ceiling fan is not just a sound. It is my trauma.

It reminds me that my effort, preparation, and dreams can all be undone by something as simple as the restless wind above my head.

I do not fear silence. I fear the noise that silences me.

And this is why awareness matters. These are the invisible barriers many of us face. We do not struggle because of our ability. We struggle because of the environment, because of small things others may overlook.

So here is my call to action: before you begin an interview, a viva, an exam, a hospital consultation, a counseling session, a guidance meeting, or even simple conversations in public offices, banks, or train stations, take a moment to ask: “Are you comfortable? Is anything troubling you?” Switch off the fan, lower the noise, adjust the mask if needed.

And if you are making announcements to a group, do not stop there. Go to the person directly, repeat it to them, assist them. These small acts can clear huge barriers.

Do this, and you will see us answer with clarity, confidence, and boldness. You will be surprised at how much potential was always there, waiting only for the noise to fade.