I prepped for last night’s class much as I do any month. Create a session workbook, research best practices to make sure my advice is as current as possible, develop engaging activities that encourage my attendees to be participatory, not passive. I arrived at the workshop location about 20 minutes early – a place in which I had never previously taught or visited. I sat in my car listening to music to get me excited for the class, but I could feel my body approaching a looming anxious state. I don’t encourage working a full day at one job and diving head first into another that demands you be the center of attention. Plot twist: It’s draining. Still, I was so ready to share the materials I prepared and to chat with yet another passionate group of entrepreneurs.
I made my way to the private event room and began setting up with my organizing partner. We had never met, so we exchanged some basic information and greetings, but I could feel myself shutting down. Time passes really quickly when you’re an anxious person. What was 45 minutes prior to my class start time quickly became 3. 6:27 PM and I bolted for the bathroom when I should have been welcoming arriving attendees. I did jumping jacks in the stall – I wish I was kidding – wet a paper towel with cold water to put on my neck and forehead. Too late, it was happening.
I don’t get nervous for public speaking. I never have. I’ve always thrived in the spotlight, as uncomfortable and cringe-worthy as that is to verbalize. It wrecked me to think my body was a failing me in my safe space. I stumbled through the first half of the workshop in a frenzy. Unsure if I was even making sense, I asked my questions and gave responses – one hand on my neck in an attempt to relax the throbbing, tense muscles in my shoulders. I did calm down – about halfway through the two hour class. I spent the latter half of the workshop calm, but reeling with pain behind my eyes from stifling a full panic attack. I was sure everyone at the table could see my fidgeting self and call my bluff. Then, a surprising thing happened. The conversation turned to a discussion about the impact of health as a limiting factor for business owners. I found the perfect in to tell the room I struggle with anxiety and panic attacks – that, in fact, I was experiencing one right in that very moment. No one really flinched when I shared that statement, but the calm I felt as a result of admitting and acknowledging was all-consuming.
The workshop carried on as expected with some exciting scenarios that encouraged participants to think on the spot not only about brand creation, but the maintenance thereof. I am so humbly reminded of the passion in every attendee that comes to my events. Each one is unique in their motivation, but truly believes in the good of community building; it shows in their questions and responses. Participants had the following to say about the class:
- “Creating my personal pitch was extremely helpful.”
- “The topic was very insightful, and I loved the format and group discussion.”
- “I loved meeting new people and focusing on brand strategies with open dialogue from other voices.”
- “[The class] was very inviting and had a personable atmosphere. The break up of topics with explanation of purpose helped the class flow.”
- “I loved learning about seeking ideal clients and how to explain what I’m doing and why.”
So it seems they didn’t notice my panic. I read these feedback sheets as I ate McDonald’s in the bath tub, trying to recover from a draining day. I aptly named this workshop to encourage participants to revel in their strengths as their assets are what make them stand out in a crowd. I never envisioned anxiety would be a part of my life, let alone something I re-frame to leverage as an asset to teach and build solidarity.
Bottom line? Entrepreneurship is uncomfortable at times, and further complicated by emotions – ya know, due to being human and all. Sometimes the stress of executing what you love eats away at your ability to perform. Sometimes people around you notice, sometimes they don’t. Stress has real, physical repercussions and I’m dealing with them hand-in-hand with chronic illness. No one knew my discomfort last night. No one knew I was fighting tears, wrestled with the urge to flee, or that my neck and jaw felt wired shut – until I told them. We millennials tend to overshare, but I still believe there’s value in putting this anecdote out on the web and into my classes in case one panicking person hears and feels a little less alone. Let’s take care of each other, however we can, even when those struggles are silent or invisible.
