For
as long as I could remember, I had been terrified of public speaking.
Not a mild nervousness, not the kind of fear that fades once you
start talking, but the kind that felt alive, like it knew exactly
when to show up and how to corner me. Every time I was told I had to
present in front of my class, it felt as though the world itself were
collapsing inward, the walls closing in while public speaking stood
there waiting, patient and smug, daring me to fail.
I
could already see it play out like a scene from a movie. I would walk
to the front of the room, my legs heavy and uncooperative, and the
moment I stopped moving, my hands would betray me. My cue cards would
slip free, scattering across the floor as if public speaking had
knocked them from my grip on purpose, watching as I shook like a leaf
and scrambled to gather them back up.
In
moments like that, time stopped obeying logic. The ten seconds it
probably took to fix everything stretched into what felt like a
lifetime: every second thick with silence, every breath loud enough
to echo in my ears. Public speaking loomed over me during those
pauses, feeding on my hesitation, growing stronger the more I
struggled.
And
yet, despite how utterly terrifying speaking was, I loved to write.
Writing felt safe. It listened instead of judged. It allowed me to
express myself without shaking hands or a trembling voice, even if
facing that same expression out loud felt like stepping into a fight
I was never sure I could win.
When
I was in ninth grade at my new high school, one of my teachers
approached me and explained how I should write a speech for a
province-wide competition. She spoke casually, as if she weren’t
unknowingly inviting public speaking back into my life, as if it
hadn’t already made itself very clear that it was my enemy.
“You
should think about submitting something,” she said, like it was
a harmless suggestion.
I
told her I wasn’t interested, my answer quick and automatic. “I
don’t really do speeches,” I said, already bracing
myself. She didn’t seem bothered. Instead, she smiled and
insisted on sending me the link anyway, assuring me it would be worth
my while to at least consider it. “Just take a look,” she
added.
That
afternoon, sitting at home with the link open on my screen, I thought
back to her words and felt myself hesitate, torn between the safety
of staying invisible and the quiet pull to write. I eventually folded
and decided I would submit to the competition, convincing myself that
the chances of making it into the top ten were extremely low, low
enough to keep public speaking at a safe distance.
I
spent that entire night writing my speech, losing track of time as
the words poured out faster than I could keep up with them. I woke up
early the next morning to revise, then spent my lunch revising, and
even stayed for hours after school revising, chasing the feeling that
the piece was finally saying exactly what I intended to say.
Writing
felt like control, and I clung to it until I was satisfied with every
sentence. When I finally submitted it, I felt relief, certain that
this was where the story would end.
A
few months later, however, I found out I had been selected as one of
the top ten finalists. My initial exuberance burned bright—especially
since this felt like the first time my writing had truly mattered—but
it was blown out the moment I realized what making it to the final
truly meant.
Public
speaking returned immediately, looming in the back of my mind,
reminding me that the short-lived victory came with a price. I would
have to present my speech in front of a theatre full of people. I had
two months to prepare, yet public speaking seemed to rush the days
forward, and before I knew it, the day of my presentation arrived
quicker than I could have ever expected.
I
was behind the stage, frantically trying to stain the words into my
brain, repeating each line over and over as if I could force them to
stay. Public speaking hovered there with me, silent but present,
watching as my hands trembled and my thoughts scattered.
When
my name was called, I walked onto the stage and immediately realized
the theatre was far larger than it had looked that morning when it
was empty. It was no longer just a room. It was full of souls. The
seats stretched endlessly outward, and as I looked around, I could
have sworn the theatre had no end, only rows upon rows of eyes
analyzing my every movement, every breath I took, every time I
blinked.
Public
speaking stood between me and the crowd, pressing the weight of all
that attention down onto my chest.
Halfway
through my speech, the words disappeared. They didn’t fade away
gently. They vanished, leaving my mind completely blank. The air felt
heavier, thick enough to choke on, and public speaking tightened its
grip, daring me to stop entirely.
With
nothing else left to lose, I did the only thing there was to do in
that moment, and started speaking from the heart. It sounds cheesy,
and I am not going to pretend it was pretty, because it wasn’t.
I was stuttering, pausing, losing my breath after nearly every word,
because frankly, I was petrified. Public speaking fed on every
stumble, every shake in my voice, making sure I felt everything.
When
I finally concluded my very messy speech, I walked off the stage and
ended up sitting in the bathroom for who knows how long, overwhelmed
with regret and disappointment. I wished I had never listened to my
teacher and submitted to the speech competition. I wished I had never
driven to the theatre. I wished I had never walked onto the stage. I
wished I had never spoken in front of those lifeless eyes.
When
it came time for the winners to be announced, I stood there
expressionless as my name wasn’t called. I can’t say I
was surprised. Public speaking had beaten me again.
A
few days later, I found myself thinking back to the competition more
often than I expected. At first, it was uncomfortable, like reopening
a wound I assumed would sting forever, but slowly something else
began to settle in.
I
had stood on a stage in front of a theatre full of people, under the
scrutiny of a table of judges, and I hadn’t disappeared. I
hadn’t run. I spoke anyway. Even if it wasn’t perfect,
even if my voice shook and my words tangled, I had spoken from the
heart, and the message itself wasn’t half bad.
That
realization lingered with me longer than the regret ever did.
When
it came time for my next class presentation, I noticed something was
different. As I walked to the front of the room, I waited for public
speaking to strike again, for my hands to shake or my breath to
betray me, but it never fully arrived.
I
spoke with confidence in the information I was sharing, grounded by
the quiet knowledge that this classroom was nothing compared to the
crowd I had faced weeks earlier. I wasn’t shaking. I was
breathing normally. I felt present. It wasn’t flawless, but it
was real, and it was good.
Slowly,
I began to understand that public speaking was not an unbeatable
force, something that controlled me without question. It was loud,
and intimidating, and cruel when I let it be, but it was no longer in
charge. I had faced it at its strongest, under the harshest lights
and the heaviest silence, and I had survived.
That
stage, the one I once wished I had never stepped onto, became the
place where my fear finally lost its hold. Public speaking did not
disappear from my life, but it stopped feeling like an enemy I was
destined to lose to. From that day on, every time I stand up to
speak, I carry the knowledge that I have already endured worse, and I
speak anyway.
Cybil is a student and unpublished
writer whose work often uses symbolic language and personification to
explore personal experiences. They enjoy reflecting on emotion through
storytelling and draw inspiration from imagining abstract ideas as
living presences on the page.
