DreamScope Theatre

© 2025 Puja Goyal

It all started when I first walked into the school as a drama teacher. In the school staff room, those lunches with fellow teachers and the thin line between education and friendship with colleagues. Suddenly I realised someone isn’t talking with someone, or isn’t happy with the way decisions are being taken. Someone wants you part of the team, and someone doesn’t. Some wants to dump their responsibilities on you and someone wants to advise and assist you… Someone likes your ideas, but then they want to keep the parents or the principal happy so they’ll ask you to work accordingly. There will be all kinds of people.

A beige-walled Monday. Flickering tube light. Coffee gone cold. And colleagues gather with the principal for a brainstorming session. A junior teacher stood up to present an idea for the annual day program. Her proposal were immaculate. Her ideas creative. Her delivery was… polite.

But one looked up.

And then Raj, the head mistress, cleared her throat and said, “Let me tell you what happened when we tried something like this back in 2019…”

Heads turned. The room leaned in.

That day, I realised: storytelling isn’t a soft skill. It’s a survival skill. And it is not limited to my stage productions, rehearsals or workshops.

It’s the difference between a bullet point and a buy-in. It is applied everywhere.

Between being heard and being remembered.

In the trenches of office politics and group decision-making — where decisions are rarely made purely on merit and influence is an invisible currency — I saw how stories sliced through suspicion, cynicism, and status quo. Stories didn’t just relay information. They made people feel safe, seen, and involved.

Just like in classrooms, the best communicators in office and staff meetings weren’t always the most senior. They were the ones who could distill complexity into clarity, who could make a product roadmap feel like a quest, and who knew when to pause, when to pivot, and when to punchline. And that’s because they have experienced and practiced the art of negotiation through story-telling.

The truth is, everyone wants to be heard and their ideas implemented. They want to make a difference and it comes with some sort of agency they want enforced.

Storytelling taught me diplomacy. Not the polished, HR-handbook kind, but the kind where you learn to read the room before you speak, to start with empathy, and to shape your message like clay — not just for what you want to say, but for what they need to hear.

Once, during a particularly tight project meeting, I told a story about a childhood science fair — about how my volcano model erupted five minutes before judging and splattered the chief guest’s sari. The room laughed. Shoulders loosened. The head msitress then shared a story of her own. And just like that, the standoff melted. We could talk like humans again.

That’s the alchemy of stories. They don’t solve power struggles. But they soften them. They’re not a shortcut to influence — but they are the long game. A bridge. A balm. A way to walk through professional terrain without losing your humanity.

So whether you’re managing a classroom or navigating a staff. meeting, remember: your words are not just vehicles. They are vessels.

When you tell a story, you’re not performing. You’re inviting.

You’re saying: “I see you. Let me show you something real.”

And in that flicker of shared truth, trust begins.

Coming Soon: The Storytelling Classroom—a professional development workshop by DreamScope Theatre, designed for educators, facilitators, and communicators seeking to elevate their teaching through the art of storytelling.

Because the future of education begins with how we speak, listen, and connect.