Voila, voila, here I am

Every morning, the train doors opened with the same sigh, and she slipped in like a shadow. To most passengers, she was invisible, a woman in a plain coat, earbuds in, gaze steady on the floor. But inside her head, Barbara Pravi was singing:

“Voilà, voilà, qui je suis…”

She mouthed the words silently, her lips shaping the anthem she wasn’t ready to speak aloud. The music carried her across the city, through the blur of concrete and steel, toward another day in an office where she existed only as background.

At work, the spotlight always landed elsewhere. In meetings, her manager leaned forward attentively when James spoke, even when James repeated ideas she had quietly suggested minutes earlier. When the team’s projects succeeded, the praise ricocheted around the table but somehow skipped her. And when things went wrong, she felt the glances—soft, polite, but pointed, sliding in her direction.

“Could you take notes again, please?” her manager asked one morning, already turning back to the group as if her agreement was a given.

“Of course,” she said. She always said yes.

But on the train home, the song returned, pulsing louder through her earbuds.

“Voilà, voilà, même si mis à nu…”

She stared at her reflection in the window, tired eyes, clenched jaw, a woman disappearing behind her own patience. Something in her chest stirred.

Weeks passed, and she began small rebellions. She stopped volunteering for every unwanted task. When James repeated her idea, she spoke again, clearer this time, and let her eyes rest on the manager until he nodded, conceding, “Yes, that’s good. Let’s try it.”

She started leaving sticky notes on her desk with reminders of her own contributions. She drafted outlines of projects in advance so she could guide meetings without waiting to be asked. At night, she wrote lyrics in her journal—her little secret repertoire—dreaming of stages she had never dared approach. She noticed the subtle power in claiming space, the way colleagues shifted when she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, smiled with quiet confidence.

Sometimes, she lingered in the office long after everyone else left. She’d sit at her desk, lights dimmed, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the distant city noise outside. There, in the quiet, she practiced speaking her thoughts aloud, rehearsing phrases she had never dared to share in meetings, letting her own voice fill the empty room. It was small, private work, but it made her feel stronger, more alive.

Her colleague Maria noticed first.

“You’ve been different lately,” Maria whispered during lunch. “Not in a bad way. Just… sharper. What’s going on?”

She smiled, but it wasn’t the faded, polite smile she used to wear.

“I guess I’m finally tired of waiting for someone else to see me,” she said.

Maria tilted her head, curious, but didn’t press.

Then came the client presentation. She had built most of the report, piecing it together late at night, but as usual, the meeting agenda listed James as the lead presenter. She sat quietly at the side, her notes in front of her, ready to step in if needed.

Halfway through, James stumbled over the data. The client frowned. Her manager shifted uncomfortably. For a moment, the room wavered on the edge of failure.

She cleared her throat. “Actually,” she said, steady but firm, “let me walk you through this section.”

The room stilled. She rose, moved to the screen, and began explaining; her voice calm, precise, alive. The client leaned forward, nodding. Questions came, and she answered each one with clarity that left no space for doubt.

By the end, the client was smiling. “That was exactly what we needed,” he said.

Her manager opened his mouth as if to reclaim the moment, but the client added, “She should lead the next one.”

The train ride home felt different that evening. She pressed her forehead against the glass, the city lights streaking past like fireflies. Her earbuds played the familiar refrain, but now she whispered the words aloud:

“Voilà, voilà qui je suis.”

For so long, she had been the background character, waiting for permission, waiting for recognition. But she realized now, spotlights aren’t given. They are stepped into.

And that night, instead of going straight home, she walked to a corner she had always passed but never dared to enter: Lucky Girl Karaoke.

The neon buzzed. The air inside was warm, messy, alive with laughter. She signed up, heart hammering, and when her name was called, she climbed onto the stage.

“This is my favorite song,” she said, gripping the mic with trembling hands. “And… my voice is nothing special. But tonight, I’m singing it anyway.”

The opening notes swelled. She closed her eyes and let it out. Cracked, imperfect, but real:

“Voilà, voilà, qui je suis…”

Somewhere between the second verse and the chorus, her fear loosened its grip. People clapped, smiled, leaned into her voice. When the final note faded, the applause was gentle but genuine. She felt taller than she had in years.

Afterward, she lingered near the stage, watching others perform. There was a mix of confidence and hesitation, triumph and vulnerability, and she realized how many people carried the same quiet longing she had felt for so long. She struck up conversations, shared laughter, swapped small encouragements, and felt a part of something bigger than herself.

And before stepping down, she surprised herself again.

“Actually,” she said, her voice steadier now, “I’ve also been working on… a little standup.”

The crowd laughed in encouragement. She launched into her bit: office life, managers who only listened when a man spoke, the absurdity of taking notes in meetings where she had all the ideas. The room erupted with knowing laughter.

For the first time, she wasn’t background noise. She wasn’t waiting to be seen. She was the story, the voice, the laugh, the song.

When she left the bar that night, the city air felt different, lighter, freer, alive. She hummed her song all the way home. Voilà, voilà. Here I am.

And in that moment, walking beneath the streetlights, she felt something settle deep inside her: a quiet certainty that she would no longer wait for recognition. She would seek it, claim it, sing it, laugh it. Every small rebellion had led her here, every private rehearsal, every whispered note in her journal. She had discovered her own spotlight—and nothing, she realized, could dim it now.