Terror. My heartbeat raced, as I approached closer to my own impending doom. The undecorated, white walls threatened to close in on me from all sides. All around, the hallway bustled with students chatting, blissfully unaware of the burden that slouched my shoulders forward. With each step the weight of my fear pounded heavier and heavier. I approached the classroom, avoiding eye contact with my teacher and hoping I’d fly unnoticed. Sitting down at my desk, I scanned my notecards before inhaling an anxious deep breath. I prayed once more I wouldn’t present first. Closing my eyes, I mustered any courage left in me.

    “You’re up first.”

    The words echoed through my head as I stumbled toward the front of the classroom. The sight of the glossy eyes of my peers intensified my fear. Without reason, my thoughts and emotions contradicted one another. I understood the perspective of my classmates. In reality, their minds wandered to after-school plans and their next text message. Nonetheless, their stares lingered, paralyzing me. 

    I sputtered out the first couple of lines before drawing in a shallow breath. I spied the teacher writing notes on my grading rubric, keeping tally of each of my errors. This enhanced my nerves, detracting from my focus. I racked my brain for the right words, but to no avail. I flinched at the squeaking of a desk. The sound of graphite against the sketchbook was as loud as crumpling tin foil. Someone sneezed into their elbow. Even the slightest ruffle diverted my concentration, as the pressure mounted.

    Being in front of a crowd without an instrument exposed me, leaving me vulnerable. I had experienced less tension in front of a crowd when I performed on the violin. Control over the instrument comforted me. I imagined my right index finger and thumb gripping the bow and the other three fingers resting on the stick to add balance. My left fingers dashed across the fingerboard, moving over practiced notes without conscious thought. For a moment, I wished to be able to convey the ideas and main points of my speech in the form of instrumental song. Presenting my ideas in spoken words distressed me, while music empowered me. Written words, however, I channeled through my pencil and onto the page without any awkward pauses or filler words. Words on the page always resonated better with my internal ear than my own voice sounded to my actual ear.

    All the while, dread overwhelmed me. Without an end in sight, the stress endured. I searched for comfort or inspiration, but received nothing except blank stares and the image of my mistakes forming into words on the grading rubric. At last, the social pressure overcame me.

    Why was I even trying?

    Obviously, I was no good at this. I spit out one more stuttered line in an attempt to wrap up and dragged my feet back to my seat. I sat down, dejected. I failed to prepare, and the stress and pressure crushed me. The knowledge of my defeat idled in the back of my mind, reminding me of the grade I would earn. I sat there in silence, observing and reflecting on how my classmates fought their battles against the same strain I endured. Although each swayed and hesitated, they aced the challenge in a way I fell short. I foresaw myself in their place, prevailing over the test that conquered me. Instead of allowing myself to back down from the fight, I vowed to vanquish this enemy once and for all.

By the next time I presented a speech, I dueled against the enemies of fear and self-doubt. The teacher called my name and the panic settled back into my head. The pale walls continued their claustrophobic advance, but this time, I pushed back little by little. Maintaining focus, I drew in a deep breath and strode to the podium. I stammered the first line, but recovered with a flowing rhythm for the second and third. Each word dared me to assert myself with newfound clarity and confidence. Though the nerves persisted, I discovered how to keep them at bay. At times, the expressions of my peers continued to freeze my words before I could say them, but I progressed one line at a time, silencing the commotion of the classroom that disrupted me the first time.

My mind converged on my script, extinguishing the squeaking of the desk, the sound of the graphite and sketchbook, and the scrawling of the teacher’s notes. I centered in on the meaning behind my speech, speaking from my own identity with assurance. Even the judgemental expressions of my peers faded away into nothingness.
I concluded my well-rehearsed speech and returned to my desk. My speech wasn’t perfect, but perfection wasn’t my goal. In that moment, I recognized the value of my failed speech. My failure revealed my lack of speaking skills, highlighting my areas for improvement. It sparked an ambition within me to enhance and develop these skills to prepare myself for future successes.

Looking back, I consider the distance I have travelled up until this point, knowing I have the failed speech to thank for my growth. It served as the catalyst that sparked my uphill journey and continues to drive my motivation to press onward. One day, I will master spoken words with the finesse in which I master musical notes across the strings.