A lesson on being scared, but speaking up anyways.

It was the first week of my last year in college and I was a wreck.  

As a journalism student, I was required to take a class writing for either the student-run magazine, 14 East, or the student-run newspaper, The DePaulia. I was already on staff at 14 East, so I made the decision to enroll in Writing for The DePaulia. 

Sitting in class, the anxiety started to creep in.  

My professor, Martha Irvine, a real-life reporter for the Associated Press, was seated next to The DePaulia editors. A group of them were across from me, each of them ferociously typing on the laptops in front of them, not even taking their eyes off their screens if they needed to speak. 

I had not brought a laptop. I had a notebook and a Samsung tablet I bought in an overzealous moment during the pandemic when I thought I would finally take at-home fitness seriously.  

I quickly made a mental note, “a serious journalist uses a laptop, not a tablet in a pink case with a matching magnetic keyboard.” 

I was supposed to be getting ready to present my first pitch to The DePaulia editors. A pitch they would either accept or reject, in front of the entire class, in front of Martha Irvine, the real-life reporter for the Associated Press. No pressure.  

I was not getting ready to pitch, though. I was sitting there, watching them type, looking around at my fellow classmates who looked capable and smart and trendy and young and cool and relevant and brought their laptops.  

I feel like right now would be a good time to mention I’m in my thirties. I’m in my thirties as I write this essay and I was in my thirties during this class. Oh, I’m also a mom. It’s a long story for a much longer personal essay; let’s stay focused.  

What would a mom in her thirties be able to pitch to a college newspaper editorial team and an Associated Press reporter? What did I think I was doing? Who did I think I was? Why was I even trying this hard? I shot down any glimmer of an idea my brain tried to come up with. I was confident that anything I said would be the worst pitch they’d ever heard.  

I was spiraling and I was silent. The man next to me was not.  

I turned in his direction and recognized a fellow millennial in my midst. I might have been older than him, but I was pretty confident he was born in a year that started with a 19 and not a 20. 

As he spoke, the cracks in my shield of self-doubt started to form. Let’s lose the imagery, I’ll just come right out and say it, my classmate pitched UFOs.  

He spoke directly to the intimidating editors (apparently unflustered by the Associated Press reporter and group of Gen-Z students wearing outfits inspired by the ones we wore in middle school) and pitched a story about UFOs.  

Please let the record show I am not judging this man for pitching UFOs! Out of all the cryptid, supernatural, ookie-spooky lore in our world, I’d put my money on aliens existing over anything else. Sorry, Mothman.  

At the same time, let’s be clear. We were pitching ideas to a newspaper, emphasis on “news.”  

I was panicking about my pitch not being current or insightful. I was worried I would say one word and the entire room would immediately judge me for not being smart enough. I was so anxious I wasn’t even allowing myself to speak, and this man pitched “UFOs.” 

I honestly don’t remember what happened after that. I was too busy making it my new mission in life to forever be as confident as the guy who pitched “UFOs.” 

I laughed later that week when I retold the story to my therapist. She laughed, too. But as therapists do, she also made sure I took the time to seriously reflect on what “being confident” means for me. 

I don’t think being confident means I have to think what I’m saying or *ahem* writing is perfect. Being confident means I may have doubts, but I will keep talking and writing anyways. 

Something I learned about myself in years of therapy is that, unfortunately, I am not a robot. I am a human who will make mistakes and feel feelings.  

As a human, sometimes I will make mistakes and feel my feelings in public. I’ve learned that despite what my anxiety tells me, the ground will not break open and I won’t fall into a fiery pit a la Gandalf in Lord of the Rings if other humans witness my mistakes and feelings. In fact (and don’t tell my therapist I told you this or she’ll think she can stop seeing me), I’ve learned that when people see me make a mistake or feel a feeling, nothing usually happens. Being a human is very anticlimactic, really.  

So, here’s to making mistakes, making pitches and, of course–UFOs. 

Header by Samarah Nasir