Getting over a fear of public speaking

Most people would rather wrestle a spider than speak in public. Still, even that panic-inducing thought struggles to beat the sheer, stomach-churning terror of an email labelled “urgent.” At least with emails, you’ve got the luxury of pretending you didn’t see it. Maybe delete it and stew in the guilt later. But a stage? A microphone? A room full of expectant faces? There’s no mute button for that.

My First Time Was a Wedding Toast Gone Wrong

Let me walk you through my own mortifying introduction to public speaking—part cautionary tale, part comedy, and, hopefully, a little useful. It happened at a family wedding. Everyone I’d ever known seemed to be there, smiling, eating vol-au-vents, and completely unaware that I was about to fall apart in front of them. I was utterly convinced a short toast would be a breeze. I’d practised. I was ready.

I stood up… and immediately forgot every single word.

Just—gone. My memory packed its bags and left. In its place came an odd, stuttering babble, the kind of thing that makes your relatives stop chewing mid-mouthful. There were long, aching silences. And everyone kept smiling at me in that rigid, too-polite way that made everything worse. Meanwhile, I felt like my face was trying to match the radioactive glow of the chicken tikka.

Fear Turned Into a Reluctant Habit

After that, public speaking didn’t feel like a “skill to improve” so much as a form of ancient punishment. I kept at it—partly out of pride, partly because life kept throwing me into situations where backing out wasn’t an option. Each time, my heart thumped like a badly tuned drum. My voice wobbled. My hands did this weird puppet-show routine. Everything felt too loud, too shaky, too visible.

What Actually Helped Me Get Through It

But after enough humiliations, I started picking up a few tricks—actual useful ones, not the nonsense about picturing everyone in their underwear (which, if you’ve ever tried it, leads to far more distracting mental images than it helps calm nerves).

• Breathing helped. Proper, slow, deliberate breaths. Not the kind of panting you do when running for a train, but deep breaths that remind your body you’re not in mortal danger.
• Finding a friendly face in the audience helped, too—someone who looked vaguely supportive or at least less bored than the others. I’d focus on them and pretend we were just having a chat, one-on-one, like two people stuck at the same buffet queue.
• And—controversial though this may be—bribing myself worked. I started attaching rewards to each ordeal. Big presentation? That’s worth a new jacket. Internal briefing? Maybe a pastry from that overpriced bakery with the velvet seats. Eventually, the dread of speaking got tangled up with the anticipation of a treat, which somehow made both experiences more tolerable.

It Became Survivable Not Enjoyable

Over time, something shifted. Speaking in public didn’t exactly become enjoyable—I’m not a lunatic—but it became… survivable. A bit like doing the bins in winter or phoning your broadband provider. Still awful, but manageable.

The Real Trick Is Accepting the Nerves

The real trick? Accepting the nerves. Once I stopped fighting them and started acknowledging that being terrified was entirely normal, the fear lost some of its bite.

Of course it’s scary—standing up and trying to say coherent things while everyone stares at you like you’ve just confessed to liking pineapple on pizza. But weirdly, admitting that made it easier.

The Stories Are Worth It

So here’s what I’ve learned: most of our disasters make brilliant stories in hindsight. Especially the ones where we flop, freeze, or say something utterly bizarre under pressure.

Public speaking is just one more chance to build up your collection of slightly painful, deeply human anecdotes. And, let’s be honest, those are usually the best kind.

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