For as long as I’ve been in education, I’ve watched a quiet shift take place, so slow that most people didn’t notice, yet strong enough to redefine what learning means today. Somewhere along the line, competition and education became entangled so tightly that one began to justify the other. Schools and colleges proudly announce how well they prepare young people to “survive in a competitive world,” as if survival, not growth, is the pinnacle of achievement.
Ranks, placements, salaries, designations have become the new vocabulary of success. And every time I hear these words being thrown around with such confidence, a persistent question rises in me: Who decided that these are the only measures that matter? And why did the rest of us nod along?
It bothers me that we train children to run faster without asking whether the race belongs to them. We tell them which streams are “safe,” which careers are “respectable,” which choices are “practical”, all while quietly training them to distrust their own instincts. We don’t give them room to choose because we are afraid they will choose “wrong.” Ironically, we forget that choosing is the only way they learn to choose well.
Two incidents from my years as a principal come back to me often. One parent insisted, almost with desperation, that her daughter must get a seat in medical college “no matter what”, because she herself couldn’t. The daughter, meanwhile, was a remarkable artist, happiest when sketching, most alive when painting. But the room wasn’t large enough for her voice that day.
Another parent listened patiently to my talk on allowing children to choose their paths. Afterwards, she approached me privately and said, “Ma’am, I understand… but life is a rat race, and my daughter has to win.” Her honesty struck me harder than her words. The idea that childhood itself has become a battleground we never asked for. How did we arrive here so quietly?
The children who need space to breathe are often the ones hurried the most.
And in all this frantic motion, we neglect something essential, ‘emotional intelligence’. If there is one skill that shapes adulthood, it is this. EI is not a soft frill on the edges of education. It is the framework through which young adults make choices, form relationships, navigate conflict, and discover their own strengths.
I’ve taught students who topped every exam yet had no understanding of themselves. I’ve met young adults with brilliant English but no ability to listen. And I’ve seen quiet, average scorers demonstrate more emotional maturity than the so called “achievers.”
Education without emotional intelligence produces individuals who are skilled but unsure, intelligent but anxious, competent but disconnected. And nothing reveals this gap more clearly than communication.
Communication, as I see it, has very little to do with polished English or elaborate vocabulary. Those things are ornaments, not foundations. The real strength of communication comes from within, from clarity of thought, emotional steadiness, sensitivity to context, and the courage to speak with honesty rather than performance.
A person may speak flawless English and still fail to connect. Another may stumble for words but speak with such sincerity that the room softens. Language has never been the problem. Disconnection has. This is why I believe schools should not rush children into competition but guide them inward first. When a young person understands themselves, their fears, their talents, their values, they naturally make wiser choices. They communicate with intention, not insecurity.
What worries me is that we’re producing students who can solve equations but cannot articulate their own boundaries, who can memorise pages of theory but cannot express what hurts them, who can win academic prizes but freeze when confronted with real decisions.
We owe our children more than trophies. We owe them self-awareness. Not every child is meant to stand on a podium. Some children are meant to create their own path quietly, steadily, without applause, and that path can be equally, if not more, meaningful.
Success was never meant to be one-size-fits-all. It was meant to be discovered, shaped, questioned, and chosen. If education can shift its focus from competition to clarity, from pressure to purpose, from rushing to understanding, we will begin to raise a generation that does not feel the need to outrun everyone else. Instead, they will learn to walk in the direction that is truly theirs.
And that, I believe, is the only kind of success worth striving for.
Susan Victoria
Founder, The language Council