I’ve given a lot of speeches in my life. Keynotes to corporate leaders. Workshops for women’s groups. TEDx talks under bright lights with cameras rolling. I’ve stood on stages in front of thousands of strangers without my heart skipping a beat.
But the most stressed I have ever been about giving a speech wasn’t at a conference, a gala, or a leadership summit. It was at my daughter’s senior convocation.
When the school called to ask if I’d speak, my first reaction was simple: absolutely not. Most people probably say something gracious in moments like that—“Of course, I’d be honored.” Not me. My first instinct was to say no..
Because here’s the truth: when you’re a professional speaker, people assume you can deliver a talk anywhere, anytime, to any audience. And most of the time, I can. But there is one audience that makes me break out in a cold sweat. The one closest to home.
This wasn’t just any audience. This was my daughter’s world. Her friends, her classmates, her teachers. And every single one of them knew me not as a keynote speaker or an author, but as “Mili’s mom.”
And that? That’s a completely different kind of pressure.
The Weight of “Don’t Be Cringe”
Of course, I did what any reasonable mom would do—I asked Mili if she wanted me to do it. She’s a senior, after all. I figured she’d give it to me straight.
Now, in my head, I imagined the conversation going something like this:
“Mom, no senior in the history of seniors has ever said, ‘Please let my mom give a speech in front of the entire upper school at convocation.’ That sounds amazing.”
But then I also imagined the opposite: “OMG, Mom. I would love for you to do that. Please, please speak at convocation.”
Neither of those things happened, of course. The real conversation was shorter. Mili just gave me one piece of advice before I agreed: “Don’t be cringe.”
That was it. No pep talk. No enthusiasm. Just a warning.
And in that moment, the stakes suddenly felt higher than any professional stage I’d ever stood on.
A Different Kind of Nerves
People sometimes ask me if I still get nervous before big talks. Usually, the answer is no. I prepare. I practice. I’ve done it so many times that I know how to handle a crowd.
But standing in front of a mixed audience of high school students? That’s a whole different ballgame.
High school seniors are tough. Some of them are sprinting toward the future, counting the days until graduation. Others are nostalgic already, wondering how the years flew by. A few are just trying to survive the week, waiting for summer, and mentally checked out. And here I was, stepping in to offer them wisdom.
Would they roll their eyes? Would they tune me out or would they take anything away?
And then, of course, there was Mili. She didn’t ask for this, she didn’t want to be called out or spotlighted. She just wanted me to deliver a message that mattered without making her want to slide under her chair.
That was the real pressure—not the stage, not the crowd, not the parents. Just her.
What I Shared
I decided to keep it simple. I wanted the students to walk away with something they could actually use, not just a list of clichés they’d heard a hundred times before.
So I told them: You don’t have to move mountains. But you still have to climb them.
I talked about how senior year would be filled with big moments—the college applications, the final games, the goodbyes to friends. And also the small ones—showing up, speaking up, asking for help, and sometimes just getting out of bed when you’d rather stay under the covers.
I told them the small steps are how you climb. That you don’t have to do everything at once. You just have to take the next step, and then the one after that.
I even shared a story about climbing Mount Kilimanjaro in 2015—not because I wanted to wow them with the summit, but because the lesson wasn’t about the top at all. It was about the climb itself—the messy, funny, exhausting, beautiful moments along the way.
Life, I reminded them, works the same way.
What I Learned
Here’s the part I didn’t expect: I learned as much from giving that speech as I hoped the students would take away from it.
I learned that sometimes the hardest audiences aren’t the largest ones. They’re the ones who know you best.
I learned that confidence doesn’t mean you don’t feel nervous. It means you step up anyway. Even if your daughter has made it clear she’d rather you not embarrass her.
I learned that when you strip away the title of “professional speaker” or “author,” what matters most is the heart of the message—and whether you can connect with people where they are.
And I learned that mom tears? They’re unavoidable. You can try to pass them off as allergies, but everyone knows what’s really happening.
The Bigger Picture
I keep thinking about this morning, not because it was the most polished talk I’ve ever given, but because it reminded me of something I teach all the time: confidence isn’t about performance. It’s about presence.
It’s about showing up for the people who matter most, it’s about speaking even when you’d rather be anywhere else, it’s about laughing at yourself when you feel out of place, and remembering that even if not every teenager in the room is hanging on your every word, one of them might be.
That speech was for the Class of 2026, yes. But in many ways, it was for Mili. A small piece of me wanted her to see that even moms—especially moms—have to face nerves and do things they’d rather run from.
And maybe, just maybe, when she looks back years from now, she’ll remember that her mom stood up there, steady but human, and tried to offer something real. Not perfect. Just real.
Fresh Off the Stage
This morning reminded me that confidence isn’t about being perfectly at ease. It’s about being willing to show up, even when it feels uncomfortable.
I didn’t know how the students would respond. I worried about whether Mili would cringe. But I still stood up there and gave them what I hoped was a meaningful message.
Because in the end, confidence isn’t about waiting until every doubt disappears. It’s about choosing to do it anyway.
Think about one thing in your life right now that you’ve been hesitating on—not because you can’t do it, but because it feels uncomfortable or carries extra weight. Maybe it’s speaking up in a meeting, having a hard conversation, saying yes to an opportunity, or even saying no to something that’s draining you.
Write it down. Then ask yourself: What’s the very next small step I can take toward this? Not the whole climb, not the summit—just the next step.
And then take it. Even if you feel nervous. Even if you’d rather sit it out. Because confidence doesn’t come from waiting until you feel ready. It comes from doing it anyway.
