I’m a teenager living in a time of war, corruption, discrimination, racism, and sexism. But no one seems angry about it. People act like small steps toward equality have already fixed everything—but it’s just not enough.
It’s March 2015, and I’ve done it: I’ve solved inequality. Standing in the basement of Modern Art Oxford for the regional round of the Articulation public speaking competition, I honestly believe I’ve just introduced a room full of parents and teachers to feminism. I feel pretty pleased with myself.
Articulation is a contest for students aged 16 to 19 who’ve finished their GCSEs. Each speaker gets 10 minutes to talk about a work of art they choose. My head of sixth form told me about it just weeks before the competition, during one of our chats in his office. I was a clever but talkative student, easily distracted. I felt things deeply and often ended up overwhelmed and in tears.
I also had an all-or-nothing attitude toward school: either be the best, or don’t try at all. In his office, we talked about how I’d dropped history AS-level just weeks in because I didn’t think I could get an A. “Not everything has to be death or glory, Verity,” he told me.
Along with my patient art teacher, he thought Articulation was exactly what I needed—I loved art AS-level and was plenty opinionated as part of the school’s scrappy debate club. He suggested I prepare something for a preliminary round at school. As far as I remember, no one else even applied.
I chose to talk about Damien Hirst’s medicine cabinets, which I’d seen at his 2012 Tate Modern retrospective (the poster is still on the wall behind my desk). I first saw Hirst’s work as a kid visiting Ilfracombe, where my grandmother grew up. Hirst had a restaurant there called the Quay, filled with fish in formaldehyde and wallpaper covered in pills. I loved that his work was funny and rebellious, and that he could call anything “art.” I loved that my grandmother hated it. But maybe most of all, I loved that because the medicine cabinets were named after Sex Pistols songs from their 1977 album, I got to say “Sex” several times during my talk. I really thought I was the most radical young thinker of my generation.
At the regional heat, there were nine other speakers. They all had better historical references, made fewer sweeping statements, and said “bollocks” less than I did. I came in third. As a teenager who tied most of my self-worth to achievement, that would normally have crushed me. But in that moment, it felt like enough that people seemed to enjoy my talk and laughed when I wanted them to.
By the time Articulation invited me to speak again—this time at a conference at the British Museum—I’d already applied to study art history at Oxford. Before the competition, I thought I’d apply for English or German, definitely not Oxbridge, where I knew I’d never be “the best.” But the competition gave me courage and made me believe my opinions were worth sharing, even when I didn’t know all the jargon. I didn’t need to be the best—I just needed to share my perspective.
Talking about art—and making people laugh while doing it—quickly became my guiding passion. My Articulation journey came full circle this spring when I was invited back as the first graduate judge for one of their heats.
The competition gave me confidence that went beyond choosing a degree: not that I could achieve great things, but that I didn’t have to. I no longer needed to chase perfection—I just needed to trust my own voice.I used to be anxious and easily overwhelmed—passionate but quick to frustration. Over time, I grew into someone who believed in my own abilities. I realized I didn’t need to be perfect. For the first time, being genuine mattered more to me than being flawless.
I’ll always be grateful to my sixth-form headteacher, who took the time to understand me when I was a stubborn and emotional teenager, instead of just dismissing me (and honestly, looking back, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had). I learned that not everything had to be all or nothing—sometimes it’s worth trying, even if you’re not guaranteed to succeed.
The History of Art in One Sentence by Verity Babbs is published by Bloomsbury, priced at £14.99. To support the Guardian and the Observer, you can order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about the topic A moment that changed me I was a loudmouthed teenager who lived for winning Then I lost a competition and discovered who I really am
General Beginner Questions
Q What is the main idea of this story
A Its about how a major failure or loss can be a turning point that teaches you more about your true self than constant winning ever could
Q Why is losing a competition such a big deal
A For someone whose entire identity is built on winning a loss doesnt just feel like a defeat it feels like a personal failure that shatters their selfimage forcing a reevaluation
Q What did the person discover about themselves after losing
A They likely discovered that their selfworth isnt tied to winning They might have found humility empathy resilience or a passion for the activity itself not just the trophy
Q Is this story just about sports
A No not at all While it uses a competition as an example the theme applies to any area of life academics arts business or personal goals where you face a significant setback
Deeper Advanced Questions
Q How can a single loss change a persons entire personality
A A seismic failure acts like a reset button It challenges core beliefs To cope a person must rebuild their identity on a more stable authentic foundation which often leads to profound personal growth
Q Whats the difference between being confident and being a loudmouth
A Confidence is quiet selfassurance Being a loudmouth is often a performance of confidence to mask insecurity using bravado and putdowns to intimidate others and prop oneself up
Q Couldnt this experience just make someone bitter instead of better
A Absolutely The outcome depends on the persons reflection Someone who blames others will become bitter Someone who looks inward and learns from the experience can grow and become better
Q How does losing build more character than winning
A Winning reinforces what you already know Losing forces you to confront weakness develop resilience practice humility and innovateall key components of strong character
Practical Tips Application
