Fiona's Blog: On Public Speaking From the Heart

I've never been shy. As a little kid, I was unusually fond of sharing my thoughts with people I hardly knew. It all began when I learned the word "hi," which I'm told I began yelling at strangers from my stroller.I recently had the opportunity to do several public speaking events--something that I've always been very comfortable with--but on these two occasions, I found an unusual feeling overcoming my mind and body as I prepared to step on stage. My heart was beating faster than usual, my mouth felt dry, and as I gazed out at the small audience around me, I felt a little bit dizzy.I remember the day my mother explained the feeling of "butterflies" to me. I was four, and it was the morning of my elementary school's talent show (where I would be performing a self-choreographed interpretive dance to an Elvis Costello song). "You might feel sort of funny or sick to your stomach," She told me, "Like there are little tiny fluttering wings in there, but it's nothing to worry about, it's perfectly normal. You're going to be great."I nodded, pretty sure I understood the sensation, but I didn't experience it that day. I felt flushed excitement as the curtain rose and the music began, but I never felt ill. As I soared through my routine, I never wondered if I looked good, or paused out of shyness before performing one of my clumsy arabesques.  It felt natural, and wonderful, to be performing for so many people.In school, my comfort with public speaking flourished. I loved a good argument, a quality that often cost me friends in the middle school girl-world, where confrontation is avoided at all costs. I looked forward to presentations, and took pride in the fact that I rarely had to rehearse before delivering a speech.In 9th grade, I joined my school's debate team and began arguing competitively. I became increasingly comfortable thinking on my feet, speaking in front of others, and literally being judged on my oratorical performance. When I debated, I had to be prepared to argue both sides of the issue--and in this way, I also became an actor. On more than one occasion, I took on the character of a person who believed the complete opposite of my view.Through debating, I learned what fun it can be to play the devil's advocate and--ever a fan of controversy--started heated discussions in class, simply for the sake of arguing.

Yet somewhere along the way, I forgot what it's like to argue for something you truly believe in. I prided myself on being able to argue any side of a conflict, but overlooked the importance of being able to articulate one's true beliefs. This may sound difficult to understand, but it felt safe to argue something I didn't necessarily believe, because it was less likely I would take the criticism to heart.

Don't get me wrong; I wasn't going around picking fights with people over ludicrous topics, I didn't remotely care about, but I often refrained from bringing up the issues that were closest to my heart--and sometimes the most controversial. The main thing that comes to mind is my interest in feminism.

Although I often wondered why girls my age hated the word "feminist" I rarely instigated a conversation about it. Talking about feminism and my generation made me feel uncomfortable--not because I wasn't supported in my beliefs (which I often wasn't)--but, because the beliefs were truly mine, and I felt emotionally invested in them.

Several weeks ago, I was asked to speak a Tedx Youth conference about women and girls today, where it was requested that I share my own story. A few days ago, I had the honor of introducing New York Times Columnist Gail Collins at an event at my high school, where I spoke about my interest in feminism and high school girls today. In both situations, I stood in front of a small audience comprised of peers or people I knew. I didn't anticipate that my nerves would kick in in either situation, but they took me by surprise and let butterflies loose in my stomach. As I searched the audience for somewhere calming to fix my gaze, I searched the innermost reaches of my mind for the root of this anxiousness. I've argued with 6 foot tall boys about nuclear weapons! I told myself. I've argued about industrialization in front of an international audience in a foreign country. Why in the world am I choking now when it comes to the things that I actually know?Everyone's different, but it turns out, I find it harder to talk about myself than the International Criminal Court. I'd rather argue with a stranger twice my size than speak to a room full of people who know me intimately. As soon as I realized I was at the end of my comfort zone, I took a deep breath, focused on the red EXIT sign, and stepped out.