L.O.S.t.

L.O.S.t.:  Late Onset STage fright.

A real bummer, especially if you are a professor and you spend a pretty significant time speaking in front of people.

A real bummer, especially if you feel like you actually like being up in front of people and talking, engaging, teaching.

A real bummer, because all that adrenaline feels hard on your body, and worrying about it happening seems like a waste of time.

But there it is.  I have it, this LOSt.  I didn't have it for a very long time.  I was a pretty confident public speaker for the most part.  Then it started to happen, late in my 20s.

I remember some pretty significant examples of having it flare up throughout my professional life.  Once:  when I gave a "job talk" to try to convince the people at my old university that I was a good bet and should be rolled over from a teaching faculty to research faculty on the tenure track.  I didn't quite know how to present myself because I had an interdisciplinary degree, and then switched my research focus early on, and had a lot of doubts about my own abilities but had to seem confident.

In other words, I couldn't just stand up and say "I am a historian," or "I study literature" and present my neatly organized dissertation research.  I had a degree in Cultural Studies, had written about popular culture and politics, but wanted to write about environmental controversies, and was mostly working in engineering education.  What the hell does that all mean?  I had to convince a room full of smart, cynical people that I could pull off publishing and teaching in these areas.  No wonder I was a little nervous.

I fumbled through.  Didn't do a very good job.  My knees and voice shook uncontrollably.  And somehow I still got the job, probably in spite of that talk, and not because of it.  The impostor syndrome set in, and I felt like I had fooled people and would be found out at any moment.  Workaholism and deep insecurity resulted--the never-ending battle to prove myself at last.

Then LOSt went away for a while, only to resurface at a professional conference where I had had too much coffee, was jittery, and found myself again in a room of colleagues I wished to impress.  My voice sounded too loud to me, forced, and began to shake again, and I felt desperate and out of control.  I was so disappointed in myself, and scared.

Another reprieve.  I give a few good talks, including another job talk for my new job, which went well.  Then another incident, at my new university, where L.O.S.t. struck again.  Misery for days after.

So it comes and goes.  Sometimes I give a talk and feel like I killed it, like I'm supposed to be doing this job, like I might have actually reached people and belong here.  And other times I think I've just tortured a room full of people who have to listen to me be nervous.

Having LOSt feels like a shameful thing, and it has been really painful.  The experience of it also doesn't match what I felt like is really happening in my life, which is an increasing sense of professional identity, focus, accomplishment, and happiness.  I actually feel much more confident and at ease inside; so why can't what's happening on the outside reflect that?

But one of my life rules is to go toward what scares you, rather than run.  So I did what I do and started bringing it out into the light, talking to people about it, asking for help.  Scary, scary, but the only way out.

I talked to friends about it, to other professors at different schools.  Explained that it feels like a physiological response rather than a response to any real present threat.  It was like my body had just developed this habit, and I needed to find a way to tell it that it was okay not to do that.  Everyone said that they were nervous too, when they presented, and offered suggestions.  I started seeing articles and videos and tutorials on how to conquer stage fright and read each carefully.  None seemed to solve my problem, but it was helpful to know I wasn't alone.

Then I told colleagues here about it.  They had seen it happen, of course, but they were really kind.  And bringing it out into the open maybe took some of its power away.

I scheduled a Skype session with a voice coach, who was incredible, and that helped me a lot.  She got me thinking about the mechanics of how to use my voice, what register to speak in, how to breathe.  I still forget these lessons some times, but it gave me hope that maybe I wouldn't be a victim of this thing forever.

And yoga.  Belly breathing.  If I can remember to do that, my body clues into its relaxed yoga state instead of its fight-or-flight state.  I can sometimes transform my nervous energy into just energy, and direct it to different parts of my body in a pleasant way, rather than let it grow into a crazy-making feedback loop.

Finally, working through the complexity of my professional identity and embracing it rather than feeling embarrassed by it has been central.  Seeing my diverse training, experiences, and interests as a strength and not a weakness.  Trusting myself in unexpected situations.

I push myself now to speak up in groups, to say yes to speaking engagements, to raise my hand and make comments.  Sometimes my voice shakes, sometimes it doesn't.  I forgive myself when it does, and breathe, move on.  I figure the more opportunities I have to do better, the more chances I have to rewire my experience, and my body will eventually associate public speaking with something pleasurable and rewarding.  Until then, I'm trying to just be kind to myself and accept whatever happens.