Is English My First Language? Strengthening the Muscle of Speech

There I was, driving along a quiet road, when I slipped — almost effortlessly — into one of my favourite pastimes: a full-blown conversation with myself. Not just drifting thoughts, but a passionate, imagined dialogue with an invisible global audience, explaining something deeply personal: my relationship with English.

It’s a story I’ve carried quietly for years, unspoken, but always present.

My parents, native Tamil speakers, adopted English as they moved through India’s urban cities. Tamil softened. Hindi became the language of the street, the movies, the everyday. But English — English took root in my schoolbooks, in the air of aspiration, in the world around me. Slowly, quietly, it became the language of my thoughts.

So is it my first language?

If thoughts come clothed in it, if feelings find shape through it — then yes, it probably is.

There’s something fascinating about becoming consciously aware of a language that’s been with you all along. It begins to show its layers — its sounds, its rhythm, its vastness. And then there’s that quiet comparison that sneaks in, uninvited: the ease with which native speakers toss around words, the casual mastery, the instinctive nuance. Not from effort — but just from living inside the language in all its beauty and vastness, carried gently across generations. Because it’s the language they’ve always breathed.

But even that isn’t the heart of it.

What struck me that day, between turns and traffic lights, was something simpler — and more profound.

Speech is physical.

It’s not just a mental process. It’s movement.

It’s breath shaped into sound. Thought turning tactile.

It is sound taking shape. A thought becoming matter.

And like any physical movement, it becomes more graceful and efficient with repetition — with muscle memory.

That insight hit me hard.

Because in my mind, I am articulate beyond belief. I speak with such freedom in my imagination — fluid, sharp, even poetic. But when I try to say those same things aloud? I often falter. My flow breaks. And I’ve come to see that it’s not just about words — it’s about practice — it’s about strengthening the muscle of speech.

Just like dancing or running or painting, speaking is a craft of the body.

And maybe that’s why I find myself circling back to one of the simplest stories from childhood: the tortoise and the hare. For years, I thought nothing of it. Just another fable with an obvious moral. But when I revisited it while homeschooling my son — through the beautiful lens of animal fables in Grade 2 — it unfolded differently.

Does slow and steady really win the race?

A 2nd grader will tell you that’s not entirely true.

How about fast and steady?

Can slow and steady beat fast and steady?

Ha! Now that’s the real question.

(Of course, there’s a whole other conversation waiting — about what winning really means. Does finishing first mean winning? Or could taking your time, slowly relishing something, be its own kind of victory? But let’s keep that for another time…)

What we realised — in our classroom, in our daily lives — is that the true winner, the real wisdom, lies in just one word: steady.

That’s the keyword. Steady.

We found a hundred examples to back it up — from piano practice to cycling, from handwriting to the pace of writing itself. Everything physical begins with one quiet, consistent focus: being steady. And then, like magic, you watch yourself shift — from slow and steady to fast and steady.

Coming back to speech.

Speak. Speak your thoughts, consciously.

Don’t settle for filler words — the ones that jump in when something deeper is waiting beneath the surface. Words like amazing — so overused, so often empty.

Find your word.

Take your time.

Pause a lot.

Enjoy the awkwardness.

Imagine you’re learning how to ride that bike for the first time.

Because conscious English speaking — for many of us who didn’t grow up with it in our bones — is exactly like that.

And soon enough, you’ll find yourself moving…

from slow and steady to fast and steady.

To that casual mastery that is enviable, but can now begin to feel quietly within reach.

Because when the urge is to mean every word — even the simple ones — speech begins to feel alive.

Not polished. Not perfect. But deeply personal.

And slowly, it becomes your own.

Want to engage in conscious self-work? Talk to me. Coach with me. Grow with me.

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