Finding My Voice: A Journey from Quiet Classrooms to Open Inquiry

I realised very early in life that a simple question could carry unexpected weight. To someone who did not grow up where I did, this may seem unlikely—but it shaped my earliest memories of school. I was born in Burma—today known as Myanmar—during the late years of a long socialist era. My first classrooms were places where curiosity had to navigate quietly between instinct and caution.

By the time I moved into secondary school and later university, the country was under successive waves of military leadership. Rules changed often; slogans and expectations shifted with each political turn. What remained constant was the atmosphere: students followed directions closely, teachers delivered lessons from the front of the room, and the safest response to uncertainty was silence. I studied dentistry in an environment where speaking up did not feel natural. You learned by listening, memorising, and avoiding the kind of attention that came with questioning too boldly.

Still, I asked questions whenever I could—carefully and selectively. That was how I tried to understand the world. At the same time, I never forgot the caution that had been taught to me since childhood. There was a common saying that «walls have ears,» and even as a student, I sensed the truth in it.

When I eventually left Myanmar during a brief period of political softening, I assumed that the urge to hold back would lessen. I believed that stepping into foreign universities would mean stepping into a different mindset. But habits shaped early—even those woven quietly into daily life—do not simply disappear once you cross a border.

I went on to complete a master’s degree and a PhD in East Asia, followed by postdoctoral work in Southeast Asia. These institutions were lively and well equipped, full of motivated research groups and high academic expectations. Yet the communication style still reflected cultural values: maintaining harmony, avoiding unnecessary confrontation, showing respect through indirectness. Asking a direct question sometimes felt like stepping beyond an invisible line, even when no one mentioned it aloud.

As someone who is naturally curious but also introverted, I often wondered whether my hesitation came from my personality or from the lessons of childhood. My thoughts always moved faster than my voice. The instinct to inquire remained strong, but the habit of waiting stayed stronger.

Moving to Norway marked an unexpected turning point. Arriving at NTNU placed me in an environment where people spoke openly and without hesitation. Meetings unfolded through active dialogue. Students challenged senior colleagues freely. Disagreement was treated as insight, not disruption. What struck me most was the comfort people felt in expressing their honest thoughts.

In the beginning, I remained quiet out of habit. I softened my comments and rehearsed questions internally, even when no rehearsal was necessary. My Norwegian colleagues seemed genuinely surprised by my hesitation; to them, questioning was a natural part of scientific work. It took time for me to recognise that I was not simply adjusting to a new workplace—I was adjusting to a new way of participating in knowledge-making.

Slowly, I allowed myself to speak more freely. I discovered that a question did not require perfect phrasing to be valuable. I learned that disagreeing could strengthen an idea rather than undermine it. And I understood that being reserved does not mean staying silent—it means choosing words with intention.

For the first time in my scientific life, my curiosity felt completely at home. It no longer existed in quiet tension with my surroundings. Norway gave me space to think aloud without first calculating the possible consequences. I asked questions because they mattered, not because I had rehearsed them into safety.

Reflecting on my journey, I see how each stage of my life shaped the scientist I am today: the carefulness learned in primary school during the socialist years, the strict classroom routines of my university training under military rule, the demanding pace of my early research years in Asia, and finally the openness I encountered in Norway. Each environment left a different fingerprint on how I learned, questioned, and interacted.

Many researchers who cross cultures carry quiet histories that rarely appear on a CV. Some speak gently even when encouraged to be louder. Some pause before every sentence. Some learned early in life that raising a question could change the entire tone of a room. These experiences are seldom discussed, yet they shape how scientists show up in their work.

What I found in Norway was something I did not know I was missing: a sense that asking a question is a way of participating, not a way of overstepping. It offered a mental space where curiosity could move freely, unguarded by old reflexes. That intellectual breathing room has been as transformative as any professional achievement.

Even now, when I raise my hand in a seminar, I feel a quiet personal victory. The importance of the question lies not in its complexity, but in the freedom behind it. It reminds me of a journey that began decades ago in a small classroom in Burma.

I am still learning how to speak without hesitation. And with every question, I become more like the scientist I once imagined I might become—one grounded in many cultures, yet able to think openly, unburdened by silence.

Science thrives when curiosity is allowed to thrive. Ensuring that researchers everywhere can ask freely is not only important for knowledge itself—it is essential for the people who seek it.