I Still Have Public Speaking Anxiety . . . On My Couch

Last week, my law school’s public relations team invited me to participate in our dean’s new video series, Law in Time of Crisis. The tech team scheduled a Zoom prep to set up my microphone, webcam, lighting, and background. Energized, I woke up that morning, made coffee, and penned three journal pages — my morning ritual to clear my head. I jumped rope and shadowboxed in my makeshift kitchen gym. I showered, washed my hair for the first time in a while, slid on a cheerful turquoise shirt (and sweatpants), and did my makeup.

I logged into the prep session. As my colleagues tweaked sound and light adjustments, a panic tornado began to swirl. My stomach knotted. My heart thumped. My head pounded. Red blotches dotted my neck. My public speaking anxiety was back, this time in my own home.

For two decades as a law student, litigator, and law professor, I grappled with extreme public speaking anxiety. When professors cold-called me in law school classes, when I asserted an objection in a contentious deposition, when I presented an argument in court, when I tried to interrupt strong personalities in law firm meetings — the same automatic mental and physical responses kicked in. Every time. My heart banged against my ribcage. Sweat trickled down my back. A fiery blush blazed across my cheeks.

Some readers might be thinking, Fake it till you make it! Just prepare and practice and you’ll get used to it! Everyone is nervous; in fact, if you’re not nervous, you don’t care enough! Trust me, I’ve tried all of that. None of those slogans or motivational mantras ever worked for me.

Rather than “feel the fear and do it anyway!” or “just do something every day that scares me!” I started untangling my fear. I wanted to dig into my apprehension, to truly understand it. I like the word untangle.

In dissecting my fear, I paused and actually listened to the negative mental soundtrack that launches and plays on a loop every time I anticipate or step into a performance scenario. I stopped, focused, heard, and transcribed the words playing in my mind about my perceived abilities. It wasn’t pretty. I dismantled those mental messages and reframed them into accurate truths about my abilities and worthiness.

Next, I inventoried the physical manifestations of my performance fears. I surveyed my body — head-to-toe — at the onset of public speaking anxiety. I noticed a sequence: rapid heartbeat, sweat, blush. I realized — for the first time — that my body automatically reacts to fear by trying to get small. I naturally fold inward, hunch my shoulders, cross my arms and legs. My body’s reflex response to protect me from a perceived threat unfortunately blocks my oxygen, blood, and energy flow.

Armed with this new information, I trained myself to unfold, open up my frame, shift my shoulders back, stand or sit tall, in a balanced athlete’s stance. I practiced Professor Amy Cuddy’s “power poses.”

I published two books on these issues: The Introverted Lawyer and Untangling Fear in Lawyering. When my introversion book came out, I started receiving calls from law firms, bar associations, law schools, and podcast hosts about speaking opportunities. I appreciated the irony. Writing about my public speaking terror catapulted me into a new vocation — in public speaking.

In three years, I have given nearly a hundred talks related to my books.

Have I “conquered” my fear? Absolutely not. Yes, I stand in front of my wonderful law students each week, deliver my curriculum, and engage with them about complex legal topics. Yes, I travel and give tons of talks and usually they go fine, and often are wildly fun. But on the mornings before many of my presentations, nerves percolate anew. I hear the same soundtrack, Why on earth did you think you could do this?

I catch myself. I initiate pre-game and game-day routines.

I mentally reboot: You’re prepared for this. You know what you’re talking about. You’ve worked hard for this. You have something important to say. You’re entitled to say it in your voice. It doesn’t have to go perfectly. If you reach one person, you’ve done your job. Now go.

I reset my physical frame. I stand in a balanced athlete’s stance. I breathe, and remind myself, You didn’t pass out in a 60-minute boxing session yesterday. You’re certainly not going to fall down now.

For the past eight weeks, I’ve been sheltering-in-place solo in my Brooklyn apartment. As an introvert, I thrive working independently in my quiet home, teaching, researching, and writing on my couch, a candle flickering on my coffee table. Locked down alone, I find peace through daily structure. I make coffee and write my three journal pages. I grade papers and wrestle new writing projects. I take breaks to punch the boxing bag that I ordered, constructed, and situated in my kitchen. For the most part, I’m doing okay.

And yet, I still battle extreme public speaking anxiety, sitting in sweatpants on my couch, surrounded by my favorite possessions, protected from the world by the four walls of my apartment.

I noticed it first in a Zoom faculty meeting. I needed to weigh in on a substantive issue that affected my academic program. My heart th-th-thumped. My breathing stalled. Sweat dribbled down my spine. My face shifted from pale to pink to fiery red on the screen. Weird, I mused.

Then, a few podcast hosts reached out for virtual interviews. I got excited, eager to collaborate about improving the legal profession. The morning of each interview, my stomach twisted. I ruminated over my clumsiness with technology, my smile looking fake on screen. I chided myself for the pre-game jitters.

When it happened again in the prep call for the dean’s video series, I realized my home had become yet another performance arena. I needed to trust my system. When the tech team gave me a “thumbs up” and logged off, I paced my kitchen, arms on hips, willing a “power pose.” I reminded myself, The dean is an incredibly nice guy. We’re on the same team. This is just a conversation between two humans. It’s not live. It can be edited. This is low stakes. Talk about what you love.

I logged in again. My face looked magenta on camera. I sat in my kitchen chair, balanced both feet on the floor, recalibrated my physical frame, and breathed.

Why do I still grapple with public speaking anxiety in the comfort of my own home? Here’s why. This journey has nothing to do with faking it till I make it, just preparing and practicing, or just doing it. None of that works for me, obviously.

This has everything to do with a relentless fear of judgment, criticism, rejection, and exclusion that took root decades ago and continues to germinate. And that’s okay. I can work with that.

All four people on that latest Zoom video — my dean, our marketing director, our external affairs coordinator, and our tech specialist — are kind, caring people. Yet, I somehow still feared that they would think my answers were not intellectual enough, that my technical ineptitude would annoy them, that they would think I wasted the institution’s time.

For anyone grappling with chronic self-doubt, I see you. I’m rooting for you.

Let’s work together to overwrite our negative mental soundtracks. Let’s remind one other that our thoughts and ideas are important, and we need to share them, even if our voices shake, we blush or sweat, or we’re still befriending unfamiliar technology. We don’t need to fake bravado. Let’s amplify our voices authentically. Let’s strengthen our physical frames to maximize productive energy, blood, and oxygen flow to power our brains. Let’s step into the ring. Let’s make space for one another. Let’s keep going.