I Was Terrified Of Public Speaking For Years. Here’s How I Finally Conquered My Debilitating Fear.

I’m unsure when or why my glossophobia started, but by high school, I avoided public speaking at all costs. That choice profoundly shaped my experiences, friendships and mental health. Although I was interested in theater, for instance, I stuck to stage crew. Auditioning for the fall play was simply out of the question. 

Yet as my fear of public speaking swelled, so did my love for writing. English class became a sanctuary. Unlike public speaking, writing offered the glorious freedom to edit what I wanted to say, to tinker until my words felt just right. I could substitute one for another, sculpt them into sentences, and create something resonant and articulate and unmistakably me.

After high school, I attended the University of Iowa, home of the world famous Writers’ Workshop. The sidewalks of downtown Iowa City are studded with bronze plaques honoring writers like Flannery O’Connor and Kurt Vonnegut. As an English major, I devoured works by George Eliot, David Foster Wallace and Mary Oliver. I found my voice in literary critiques and painstakingly crafted essays. The written word never made my palms sweat, at least not until the due date. And I made sure to avoid any elective that mentioned “oral presentation” in its syllabus.

Core classes were another story. For my social science credit, I took Introduction to American Foreign Policy. That end-of-semester presentation still haunts me. I remember the hot flush of my cheeks, the stuttering of my heartbeat, and the sickening realization that my audience was too uncomfortable to make eye contact. 

But that’s the thing about public speaking: the more you avoid it, the more daunting it becomes. With each presentation, I unconsciously trained my brain to accept distress as part of the process. I convinced myself there was nothing I could do to overcome my fear. My worsening anxiety shaped my career prospects, too. As I approached graduation, I ruled out public-facing professions like teaching and law. Instead, I envisioned myself as a book editor, accompanied by a red pen and the relative safety of solitude. 

By 2010, when I landed my first publishing job, my public speaking fear was debilitating. As it turned out, making books required constant collaboration. The corporate environment only made things worse. Each workday felt like a high-stakes performance, and my older colleagues were intimidating with their dark suits and Blackberries. And there were So. Many. Meetings. I came home drained every night.

“I had to talk in a meeting today,” I’d groan to my then-boyfriend Nick, collapsing in a heap on the couch.

“And you knew what you were talking about,” he’d respond gently. But logic offered little comfort in the face of my mental and physical anguish.

As time went on, I discovered that promotions and new jobs didn’t alleviate my distress — the stakes only got higher. The irony was hard to swallow. I had an English degree, a discipline rooted in critical thinking and the beauty of language. Yet there I was, reduced to a Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Man in front of people who rattled off buzzwords like “synergy” with a straight face.

My panic about public speaking was all-consuming. It kept me up at night, savaged my weekends, and manifested as migraines. It held me back from new opportunities — No way I can do that job, I’d think. I tried to compensate by overpreparing for presentations, but robotic rehearsals usually backfired. Instead of boosting my confidence, I felt like an actor searching for a cue card. And the typical “overcome your fear” advice never seemed to help.

Think about your audience. Trust me, I am.

Make eye contact. But now I’ve forgotten what I was saying.

Try a power pose. Well, I’m standing on a step stool because I’m too short for the podium, so that ship has sailed.

Five years passed. Finally, I asked for help.