My next TED talk will be about this one.
“So how will you top that?” one of the TEDx volunteers asked. The last presenter had just proposed to his girlfriend on stage.
His comment reflected an assumption I had also made — that the speakers would subtly or openly compete with each other. I smiled. “I don’t need to top that. That’s their moment to enjoy, and none of us would take it from them.” I meant it.
Our assumption was outside the ethos of what had actually unfolded in the VIP room backstage, a windowless room stocked with snacks and coffee where that day’s speakers could relax on folding chairs, a room chosen most likely for its proximity to the restrooms.
As speakers, we were eager to connect with each other, even though none of us had met. We knew the others could understand what we’d been feeling in this last week leading up to TEDx. We were as excited about each others’ talks as our own, but within minutes, each had confided our nervousness to the others. One gave voice to my own fear, that he felt like a fraud. I’m sure we were all afraid, but at the same time so excited about what we had to share that our fear couldn’t keep us off the stage.
My sense of being a fraud has been cultivated over a 20-year career of admiring the strengths and abilities of others while never actually examining my own. And as a presenter, I had always been nervous, so much that when a transition from practice to academia five years ago landed me in the classroom, I could barely make words come out when I stood in front of my students those first days.
When I started creating my classes at the University of Florida, I asked my friends in the field which skills they wished their employees were stronger in. “For the love of God,” said Erin, “Teach them to present.” Recognizing my own weakness in this area, I researched great presentations. I read the best books I could find (two of my favorites: Andy Goodman’s Why Bad Presentations Happen to Good Causes and Nancy Duarte’s Resonate), and visited Duarte Communications in Mountainview for their persuasive presentation training.
I brought what I learned into the classroom, challenging my students to tell stories, to modulate the energy level and pace of their talks, to use slides to amplify a point, not to make one. I worked to apply those lessons in each of my lectures. Friends on campus learned what I was doing and asked me to train faculty and grad students to make better presentations. And my own presentations got better. So much that I almost started to enjoy giving them. That my upper lip was slightly less sweaty before my lectures. And I got more and more invitations to speak. I slowly recognized that being a good speaker was about revealing my love for my content and delighting in sharing it with others
The five of us who gathered backstage were deeply interested in each others’ paths to the TED stage. Our fascination with what each had to say was more encouraging to my nervous heart than the countless “You’ll do great!”s that I had heard all week. Their topics were so compelling, their passion so apparent that I abandoned my plan to find a place to hole up and practice until I went on as the day’s last speaker and instead stayed to listen to them. I had already spent the previous night in a hotel room, practicing obsessively.
As the day unfolded, there were tears and standing ovations as one presenter followed the next. One brought dancers and a live musician with her on stage. Another connected images, narrative and cause with an understated grace that had us all jumping out of our seats to applaud him at the end. I listened without intimidation, and felt no wish to outdo any of them. I was proud of them, grateful to be among their ranks, and so happy to be part of it that I stopped caring about being a fraud. Throughout my life I’ve prayed and hoped for humility, but it was only that day that I understood fully how much I could value others without diminishing my own relevance.
After watching each of my new friends triumph, my time came. In those last minutes backstage I paced and breathed deeply. I filled my water bottle and made sure I had it close at hand. At dinner the night before I had a coughing fit that lasted 10 minutes. The incident put me into a quiet panic attack as I worried that I would spend my 18 minutes on the red circle coughing and gasping for air.
The hosts introduced me. I breathed and prayed and willed one leg and then the next to walk on the stage. I set the water bottle on the stool next to me, and launched into the opening that I had rehearsed dozens of times.
It unfolded as I hoped it would. The words came out clearer and with more meaning that I had rehearsed. My opening slide cast enough light that I could see the faces of people in the audience, and they were rapt. The energy that often overtook me when I spoke rose up in me.
And then, as I prepared to go to the next image in my slide deck, I realized something awful.
I didn’t have the clicker.
Despite the fact that I have done hundreds of presentations and love the choreography of words and images, I had somehow managed to walk onstage without it. Miraculously, the words continued to come out of my mouth as I considered my options. Go backstage and get the clicker? Ask someone to bring me one? Pray that someone would notice and one would appear in my hand? Press on and ignore the slides entirely?
Fortunately, the woman who had organized the event was in the tech chair, and she noticed my empty hands. She knew my content well enough to click through the slides.
But in that moment of vulnerability, the part of my brain that usually attached itself to the audience and allowed me to make asides and pull together narrative was occupied. Parts of the talk that I imagined flowing joyfully were stilted. I faltered.
Together, we made it to the end, and I got to the story of one of my heroines. The energy started to come back. I finished strong. There was applause. I left the stage. I had so wanted to be amazing and perfect and earn my spot on that stage. To help others see my passion for using communications to drive change. To help them understand how focus and strategy could help them make a difference on the issues that matter to them. To recruit students to help me build this field.
As the event ended, participants sought me out and congratulated me. My soldiers in arms hugged me. People emailed “You’re a ROCK STAR.” Students came up and asked to take my class.
Those closest to me — my husband, dear friends in the audience and a small group of students who know me well — were cringing.
“What happened?” my husband asked when we spoke later. He had watched the live stream, and recognized the fleeting panic on my face as I realized my mistake.
I wish I could do it all again and stride onto the stage with the clicker in hand. Maybe a few more rehearsals would have made me more resilient when things started to go awry.
I watched the talk today, and it won’t make anyone’s list of worst TED talks ever. It’s actually not bad. Fortunately, when things went off the rails, my content and stories saved me. Something that could have been disastrous was merely not great. I didn’t fail epically. There were emails from people I admire who saw the talk and asked for help with their own causes. So I wasn’t perfect, but I was relevant. Something went really wrong. And I survived.
Today, I’m less worried about being a fraud. Maybe I am one. Maybe feeling like a fraud is part of the package of doing things that haven’t been done before. Maybe my students will, when we get to the part of the curriculum where we talk about how to make a great presentation, Google me and discover my own less-than-perfect TEDx talk.
Or maybe I’ll share this experience with them and show my talk in class. I’ll share my mistakes and embrace that imperfection. Maybe I’ll tell them about how getting consumed by trying to be amazing was more instrumental to my vulnerability than the thoughtless act of forgetting a clicker. Maybe I’ll help them see that none of us has to be perfect to be relevant. It’s at least possible that they, like me, will learn more from my imperfect talk than if it had been a shot out of the park.
