Ever since I can remember, I have loved to talk. To listen, not so much, but to talk? I can’t be stopped. On a plane to a stranger, at school to teachers, in my bunk-bed with my sister, to my stuffed animals before dinner. Of course, it’s often nonsensical. As a kid, the talk was juvenile, unworldly, but always important to me. It just so happened that I was born this way, chattering. I may have had my struggles, but it was never with talking. I did not suffer a speech impediment, have trouble articulating, or ever tire of talking.
That is…. until I stood up on the podium at my ninth-grade mock Model UN conference, where I froze, blinked, then stared blankly. I knew that the thirty second timer would start when I began talking, but nothing came out. The only way to describe the feeling was that all of a sudden, I just lost my words. My vernacular sputtered to a stop, and all I could do was just stand there, tongue frozen. The memorized speech, background research, and customized placard were no help. Even though this speech was just a casual Round Robin introducing delegates and their positions—something I had thoroughly researched, something I used to get excited about, something I was so used to as a talkaholic—I was literally speechless. A sympathetic cough from the back row awoke me from my trance. I quietly swore beneath my breath and cowardly shuffled back to my seat. My heart pounded in my face, palms were sweating, and my eyes welled up with hot tears.
That was the first traumatic incident that marked my awareness of my fear of public speaking. Turns out, my situation is not unique. The fear is all inside the head and eclipses all logic. No one else can tell when it begins to creep in, but when it hits, literally like a dodgeball to the head, I become paralyzed. My hands shake, my breath quickens, and everything I had polished and practiced suddenly sounds dumb inside my head. I start to picture the bad ending of being poorly received. Thankfully, I have not experienced an incident quite as severe as my Model UN tongue-tie again, but each time I ascend steps to a stage, or lay out the food for Senate, or walk up to a microphone, I feel a panging pain in my chest. One I fear I will never leave behind me.
So, when given the opportunity to publicly speak, you’d think I would shy away. It turns out that running from adversity just isn’t my style. Now when given a microphone, I will always take on the challenge and face my fear. I will attempt to speak to an audience with purpose. I ignore that pain in my chest until it naturally fades away, and I feel like a kid again and unapologetically find the words. I build this muscle by attending open mics and reading poetry to small groups. I practice when I lead Senate each week in front of familiar faces, I participate in Slam Poetry competitions in front of a crowd of strangers, and I will eventually deliver a very public Student Government speech to the whole student body. I am determined to never let my fear win.
If you’ve met me, this fear of mine would not be obvious. I keep this vulnerable trait hidden. It’s embarrassing and hardly my favorite thing to share about myself. I am too proud to share that I have any issues at all, especially with issues of public speaking (since I feel like I am always public speaking). I am too fragile to take criticism from peers on how I stuttered in the MX. I avoid the topic if I can.
My good friends may not know this about me either. I appear comfortable speaking to people I know, face to face, in a personal manner. But when it comes to the impersonal, a speech, you know, me facing THEM, with bright lights spotlighting the sweat, the fear finds me. It’s almost unnoticeable, but if you know me, you’ll see that right before I speak in front of large crowds, I take a deep breath, test my voice, and start down the speech runway with caution. If I make a sound, it’s on. When the sounds form words, even better. When the words I planned to say start to flow, liftoff. My little inner voice grows louder with momentum, cheering me on, and with that my outer voice amplifies. Suddenly I’m flying. Suddenly, my fear has converted to a genuine desire to do it again. I love the feeling of conquering fear.
One thing: don’t shake my hand, it’s probably slick, and also, and don’t look at my knees, they’re probably shaking.
It’s been an evolution from how I went from discovering this fear, learning the skills to cope with it, and then nurturing it into actually seeking out opportunities for public speaking. Unlike that fourteen year old who slinked off stage in shame, now I walk off feeling empowered, purposeful, and proud. Just like little me would have hoped.
