The only after-school detention I ever got was because I was't prepared to share a newspaper clipping of a current event in Mrs. Ryan's sixth-grade social studies class. I'd straight-up not done the assignment because I feared public speaking more than punishment.
As I got older, I began to understand that my anxiety threatened to steal a lot of my future if I let it. Fueled by anger about how much it had already held me back, and how many opportunities it took from my mother, I chose to defy the "no's" voiced by my anxiety whenever possible.
As well-intentioned and empowered as this policy was, I have said "yes" a handful of times when I should have been more afraid. As with the case of public speaking, my anxiety had prevented me from learning the skills in the first place. I'm pretty sure I dissociated through 99% of the public speaking course I took during my fifth year of college. (It was a core requirement students normally took their first semester as a freshman.)
And as I have learned the hard way, the only thing worse than appearing visibly nervous in public is appearing visibly nervous and legitimately incompetent. Thankfully, it was in the nascent days of social media.
But when I was invited to moderate a panel at the Society of Participatory Medicine's 3rd annual conference, I felt barely a twinge of impostor syndrome. The fact that it was a panel where I could keep a relatively low profile made it a tad less intimidating, though.
About a week before the meeting, SURPRISE! I learned that the presentation would not be a traditional panel discussion, but an interactive role-playing exercise. And I was tapped to flesh out the concept, which I did. How? I don't know. It was the late afternoon when I got off that first conference call to go over the concept, and felt fully entitled to call it a day. But I was driven to jot down a few things first. (This has been happening more since I resumed journaling and posting.) It was mostly shapes and words scrawled illegibly. Once I was satisfied enough to plop myself in front of a new Netflix original, I brought my notebook with me to the couch. My pen kept moving. I almost hate to admit to this experience because of my long-held prejudice that pieces that "write themselves" usually suck. Because the conference was just days away, I couldn't stall opening the feedback as long as I normally would. (Sorry editors. It's almost physically impossible for me to open such emails right away.) I was stunned when the feedback was positive.
Then I was asked to draft the script, and I had to do it very quickly. Aside from a horrific screenplay I was required to write in college, I have never written anything anyone would ever even hypothetically perform. All I had to write were two simple sketches. But they had to be brief and capture a lot of nuance. Like poetry, I thought. Like sprinting, at which I'll never excel (that pun was accidental!). I brainstormed some questions to ask the other panelists and the audience. I noted the time allotted for each section. There were also parts of what I'd crafted that I worried for 24 hours were inappropriate. There's another part of me that hoped they'd be powerful.
When the response to that work came back even more favorable, I was in ecstatic disbelief.
When it was finally showtime, my colleagues--Dr. Danny Sands; Katherine Leon, co-founder of the SCAD Alliance; and Pam Ressler, RN, founder of Stress Resources--executed better than I could have envisioned. Every last one of our microphones squealed and/or died, though. We had to stop our presentation several times, while streaming on Facebook Live. But somehow, it didn't break our stride. I was personally just so relieved that my Klonopin was working, and that the mike problem was universal.
When I watched the hour-long video last night, I noticed that I was a little stiff compared to the others, but it wasn't cringeworthy. As the camera panned the audience, their eyes were on us, not their phones, as we'd all been guilty of at some point. People were standing up waiting to share comments and ask questions. They didn't hesitate to shout in lieu of finding a working microphone. Some of those comments were devastatingly poignant, as well as useful. The compliments after the presentation felt sincere--and I was listening hard for tones of pity. I felt an instant connection (another concept I'd eschewed as fantasy) with my co-presenters that I believe will last. I'm daring to say the whole thing was a success.
As I got older, I began to understand that my anxiety threatened to steal a lot of my future if I let it. Fueled by anger about how much it had already held me back, and how many opportunities it took from my mother, I chose to defy the "no's" voiced by my anxiety whenever possible.
As well-intentioned and empowered as this policy was, I have said "yes" a handful of times when I should have been more afraid. As with the case of public speaking, my anxiety had prevented me from learning the skills in the first place. I'm pretty sure I dissociated through 99% of the public speaking course I took during my fifth year of college. (It was a core requirement students normally took their first semester as a freshman.)
And as I have learned the hard way, the only thing worse than appearing visibly nervous in public is appearing visibly nervous and legitimately incompetent. Thankfully, it was in the nascent days of social media.
But when I was invited to moderate a panel at the Society of Participatory Medicine's 3rd annual conference, I felt barely a twinge of impostor syndrome. The fact that it was a panel where I could keep a relatively low profile made it a tad less intimidating, though.
About a week before the meeting, SURPRISE! I learned that the presentation would not be a traditional panel discussion, but an interactive role-playing exercise. And I was tapped to flesh out the concept, which I did. How? I don't know. It was the late afternoon when I got off that first conference call to go over the concept, and felt fully entitled to call it a day. But I was driven to jot down a few things first. (This has been happening more since I resumed journaling and posting.) It was mostly shapes and words scrawled illegibly. Once I was satisfied enough to plop myself in front of a new Netflix original, I brought my notebook with me to the couch. My pen kept moving. I almost hate to admit to this experience because of my long-held prejudice that pieces that "write themselves" usually suck. Because the conference was just days away, I couldn't stall opening the feedback as long as I normally would. (Sorry editors. It's almost physically impossible for me to open such emails right away.) I was stunned when the feedback was positive.
Then I was asked to draft the script, and I had to do it very quickly. Aside from a horrific screenplay I was required to write in college, I have never written anything anyone would ever even hypothetically perform. All I had to write were two simple sketches. But they had to be brief and capture a lot of nuance. Like poetry, I thought. Like sprinting, at which I'll never excel (that pun was accidental!). I brainstormed some questions to ask the other panelists and the audience. I noted the time allotted for each section. There were also parts of what I'd crafted that I worried for 24 hours were inappropriate. There's another part of me that hoped they'd be powerful.
When the response to that work came back even more favorable, I was in ecstatic disbelief.
When it was finally showtime, my colleagues--Dr. Danny Sands; Katherine Leon, co-founder of the SCAD Alliance; and Pam Ressler, RN, founder of Stress Resources--executed better than I could have envisioned. Every last one of our microphones squealed and/or died, though. We had to stop our presentation several times, while streaming on Facebook Live. But somehow, it didn't break our stride. I was personally just so relieved that my Klonopin was working, and that the mike problem was universal.
When I watched the hour-long video last night, I noticed that I was a little stiff compared to the others, but it wasn't cringeworthy. As the camera panned the audience, their eyes were on us, not their phones, as we'd all been guilty of at some point. People were standing up waiting to share comments and ask questions. They didn't hesitate to shout in lieu of finding a working microphone. Some of those comments were devastatingly poignant, as well as useful. The compliments after the presentation felt sincere--and I was listening hard for tones of pity. I felt an instant connection (another concept I'd eschewed as fantasy) with my co-presenters that I believe will last. I'm daring to say the whole thing was a success.
