There is a special kind of irony in spending months preparing a TEDx talk about what happens when confidence isn't enough, only to discover, days before stepping onto the stage, that your own confidence has apparently packed a suitcase and left town.

I would have appreciated a little more notice.

When I was selected to speak at TEDxWarrenton, I was excited, honored, and more than a little terrified.

My talk, “What Happens When Confidence Isn't Enough?”, grew out of nearly 15 years of working with girls through Girls on the Run Piedmont. I've spent much of that time encouraging girls to recognize their strengths, embrace challenges, and believe in what they're capable of accomplishing.

But I've also watched what happens when confidence gets shaken. When an “I can” becomes an “I couldn't.” When a setback starts to feel less like something that happened and more like a reflection of who we are.

That became the heart of my talk: confidence matters, but knowing we are valued and have something valuable to contribute gives confidence deeper roots.

It was a message I believed in wholeheartedly. Delivering it, however, was another story.

I love writing. I love finding just the right words to tell a story, make a connection, or help someone see something differently. I'm also the kind of writer who can spend an embarrassing amount of time working on a single sentence. I'll write it, rearrange it, delete it, bring it back, and then spend another twenty minutes wondering whether the first version was better.

So naturally, I approached my TEDx talk like a writing project.

I researched. I wrote. I revised. And revised some more.

Somewhere along the way, I reached version 9.7.

Not version 9. Not version 10. Version 9.7.

Because apparently, when you're preparing a talk about why our worth shouldn't depend on perfection, the logical thing to do is keep revising until you've invented your own numbering system.

Version 9.7 FTW!

Eventually, I had a talk I was genuinely proud of. There was just one problem. I had to stand on a stage and say it. Without reading it.

And apparently, my brain hadn't received the memo that it was supposed to develop a photographic memory somewhere along the way.

I could read my talk beautifully. But without the script, I'd find myself searching for the exact next sentence. I'd remember the idea but not the wording, or get tangled in a transition trying to recall how I'd so carefully connected two thoughts.

The harder I tried to remember the precise words, the more anxious I became. Not exactly the confidence-building experience I'd envisioned.

Somewhere in the middle of all that frustration, my wonderful speaking coach, Jordana Cole, helped me recognize something that seems painfully obvious now.

Writing and speaking are two different skills.

I know. Groundbreaking revelation for someone who considers herself a writer.

Jordana helped me understand that I didn't need to memorize every perfectly crafted sentence. I needed to know the structure of my talk, the stories, the research, and the key ideas connecting them. She called them the beats of the talk.

When she asked me to simply explain what my talk was about, without trying to recite the script, I could do it. I knew the material, the stories, and why the message mattered.

What I hadn't learned was how to trust myself to speak it.

Instead of trying to memorize an essay, I needed to learn how to tell a story.

The day before TEDx, I walked into the venue for dress rehearsal with plenty of butterflies. Then I stepped onto the stage, and something unexpected happened.

I enjoyed it.

Afterward, Mike, who had been a speaking coach during my Leadership Fauquier experience and was now part of the TEDx curation team, told me I'd surprised him with my stage presence and energy.

That made me laugh. During Leadership Fauquier, I'd spent a fair amount of time trying to avoid public speaking whenever possible. And now here I was, standing on a TEDx stage.

Another speaker told me the audience had fallen in love with me and couldn't wait to hear more. For someone who had spent weeks worrying about whether she could pull this off, those words meant a great deal.

Maybe I wasn't quite as hopeless at this speaking thing as I'd convinced myself.

On October 24, 2026, I stood backstage at TEDxWarrenton surrounded by some truly remarkable people. Experienced speakers. Brilliant thinkers. People who regularly stand in front of audiences and, in some cases, get paid to deliver keynote presentations.

And then there was me. A nonprofit executive who had spent a considerable amount of time during Leadership Fauquier trying to avoid public speaking.

My thoughts weren't particularly profound.

Please don't let me choke.

Followed closely by:

Why on earth did they choose me?

Not exactly the inspiring internal dialogue you'd expect from someone about to deliver a talk on confidence and mattering.

The irony was becoming a little ridiculous. I'd spent months preparing to tell an audience that our worth shouldn't depend on our accomplishments, while quietly wondering whether I'd accomplished enough to deserve standing alongside the other speakers.

But eventually, it was my turn. I walked onto that red dot and began.

And did I mention how hot it was up there? Because somewhere between trying to remember my next point and connecting with the audience, I was also wondering whether everyone could see the sweat stains forming under my arms.

Did I deliver the talk exactly as I'd written it?

Not even close.

I missed an entire chunk. An entire chunk! Somewhere between my brain and my mouth, a few carefully crafted paragraphs apparently decided not to make the trip.

Apparently, my brain had plenty of room for unnecessary worries. Just not those missing paragraphs.

But I kept going. I found my way back to the story and finished.

And when I walked offstage, I wish I could tell you I immediately felt triumphant. Instead, I wondered whether I'd spoken too fast. Had I connected the ideas well enough? Was the missing section obvious?

Jordana assured me that nobody knew anything was missing. She said the talk flowed and the message came through. Others offered encouraging feedback, too.

I haven't watched the recording yet, so for now, I'm trusting the people who were there. And perhaps that's another lesson in itself.

In the days since TEDx, I've found myself thinking less about what I forgot and more about what I discovered.

I did something big and scary. I stood alongside experienced speakers, shared an idea that matters deeply to me, and discovered that I genuinely love being onstage.

I also learned something about the craft. As a writer, I'll probably always spend too much time searching for the perfect sentence. But as a speaker, I don't need to reproduce that sentence word for word. I need to know my stories, understand my message, and trust myself to connect with the audience in the moment.

And there's something fitting about the whole experience.

My TEDx talk explored what happens when an “I can” meets an “I couldn't.” And there I was, living that question.

I couldn't remember every word. I couldn't deliver the exact version I'd written. But I could keep going. I could tell the story. And I could contribute something meaningful, even when the delivery wasn't exactly what I'd planned.

I don't know what I'll think when I finally watch the recording. I'm sure I'll notice things I'd like to improve. But I don't have to wait for that recording to be proud of what I accomplished.

Would I do it again?

Absolutely.

I'd still research, write, and probably agonize over a few sentences. But I'd put the script down sooner, learn the hooks and stories, and give myself more freedom to speak in the moment.

Because I didn't just discover that I could do something that scared me. I discovered that I loved doing it.

And given another opportunity, with what I know now?

I think I could totally own that red dot.  :)