How I Became a Speaker Despite My Nervous System’s Objections

Something most people don’t know about me is that I never set out to become a change management and communications professional.

I thought I was going to be a music teacher.

I received a scholarship for singing and attended to study music alongside some incredibly talented musicians. I had also done a lot of theater in high school. Ironically, my senior superlative was “Most Likely to Star on Broadway.”

Plot twist: Broadway did not happen.

Mostly because my nervous system would have preferred we never make direct eye contact with the public.

Honestly, I was actually very shy and introverted growing up. Long before imposter syndrome had a name, I was deeply intimidated being surrounded by so much talent. I struggled constantly with performance anxiety, regulating my nervous system, and stress-induced hives, especially when being graded in real time.

Which, in hindsight, makes choosing performance-based coursework a deeply questionable personal decision. At some point, I realized singing was something I loved, but not necessarily the career path I wanted long term. Eventually I found my way into communications. Ironically, that’s also where I really started speaking.

Early in my career, I volunteered with the board of a Women’s Network group and started moderating executive panel discussions internally. It felt safe enough that I kept raising my hand for more opportunities. And the more I did it, the less afraid I became.

One thing I’ve realized over the years is that confidence usually does not arrive before experience. Confidence is often the result of surviving enough moments you were sure you couldn’t handle… and realizing you did not, in fact, die.

Eventually speaking became part of my actual job. I started emceeing large internal meetings and events, facilitating leadership conversations, and helping executives communicate through periods of uncertainty and change.

Then during the pandemic, I led communications for large operational broadcasts twice a week to thousands of employees. My kids would hear me preparing and say: “Shhh… Mom’s leading a broadcast.”

Honestly, that still makes me laugh because it sounded significantly more professional than: “Mom’s upstairs trying to prevent organizational panic over Teams.”

Having come up through operations myself, I cared deeply about the field teams and spent a lot of time advising executives on messaging, asking difficult questions, and translating uncertainty into clarity people could actually absorb. Those teams went on to have strong affinity and trust for me because they knew I had their best interest at heart.

Looking back, it’s actually ironic that I ended up in change management and communications because so much of my career became helping other people regulate uncertainty while I was still learning how to regulate my own nervous system.

Was I nervous? Absolutely. Did I let myself think about that? No, because if I thought too long about it my brain would have tried to unionize against me.

Somewhere along the way I developed a mantra I still use before every presentation: “I’m not nervous. I’m excited.” I also eventually realized nervousness and excitement feel almost identical in the body. The story you attach to the sensation changes everything.

Then I plant both feet on the ground, take a deep breath, and tell myself: “Today is not the day you’re going to screw this up.”

And then I go.

Preparation became my version of stability. I always do my homework. I arrive early. I test the technology. I click through every slide. I test the polls. I map the room. I keep a hard copy in a binder just in case everything explodes technologically, emotionally, or spiritually.

Looking back, I think that’s where Calmfidence really started. Not in confidence. In preparation, grounding, emotional regulation, and learning how to stay steady while other people felt uncertain.

I also realized the best speakers are rarely just “good presenters.” They’re good storytellers. They understand energy. They engage the audience instead of performing at them.

Over time, that led to speaking at conferences, appearing on podcasts, and eventually writing, which honestly pulls together many of the lessons I learned about communication, resistance, leadership, emotional regulation, and the human side of change throughout my career.

Which brings me to this week.

I just wrapped up my session at the Association of Change Management Professionals Conference (ACMP) in Orlando and I was honestly humbled by the turnout. People were sitting on the floor, standing in the back, and several attendees told me afterward they had been turned away because the room hit capacity. Afterward, people came up to talk about the session, share their own stories, and some even purchased my book! (The People Stack: Why Change Fails and What Actually Fixes it).

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I had this strange moment where I thought:

Sometimes I think about that younger version of me sitting in music classes convinced everyone else belonged there more than she did.

I wish she could have seen the room this week. But I’m really glad she kept raising her hand anyway.

BGPD Rule: Raise your hand before you feel fully ready. That’s usually how the next version of you gets built.