Hold Your Breath and Jump

Yesterday evening, I finally did something I’ve been waiting since February last year to do.

Back then, a thyroid twice its normal size held me back. Every time I moved or tried to speak, I’d dissolve into relentless coughing fits. And because these coughing attacks flared up in winter, people gave me those wary looks — as though I was carrying some new Covid variant. So I stayed indoors, kept to myself, and pressed pause on this dream.

The dream? To step into the world of public speaking.

For years, I believed my power was best wielded behind a keyboard, through the written word. Language has always been my territory. I know how to shape it, refine it, strengthen it. I know how to sit quietly with an idea until it reveals its truest form.

But the thought of standing up and speaking kept tugging at me.

Earlier this year, I researched Toastmasters clubs near me. I bookmarked pages. I imagined walking into a room of strangers. I imagined introducing myself not as “Lia, the editor,” but as “Lia, the speaker.”

And then my body said no.

It’s a strange thing when your mind is ready but your voice quite literally isn’t. Clear, confident speech was impossible. So I postponed. I told myself: later.

Then, in August, the thyroid came out. And last night, nothing stood in my way — except me.

At 4:30 p.m., two hours before the meeting, the negotiations began.

Would they really miss me if I didn’t go?
It’s not like I’d committed to months of membership.
No one would hold me accountable.

Fear is clever like that. It rarely shouts. It whispers very reasonable excuses.

When I voiced my hesitation to my husband, he simply said: “Nike.”

I sighed. “Just do it…”

So I did.

I walked in. I smiled. I introduced myself.

And I was welcomed with warmth I hadn’t anticipated.

When visitors were invited to try a two-minute impromptu “table talk,” I was the first to raise my hand. Not because I wasn’t nervous — I was. But because I’ve learned something over the years: if you wait for confidence to arrive before you act, you may wait forever.

The topic was personal branding.
The question: If your personal brand were an emoji, what would it be?

Standing there, I spoke about clarity. About structure. About the quiet strength of thoughtfulness. I chose an emoji that symbolised steadiness and insight — not fireworks, not noise, but something intentional.

I finished one second over time. Just two “ums” and one “ah.”

And I loved every minute of it.

What struck me most wasn’t the speaking itself. It was this: growth rarely feels dramatic. There was no triumphant soundtrack. No cinematic slow-motion moment.

Just a room. A voice. A choice.

And that choice — to show up — felt bigger than the speech.

Here’s the small piece of wisdom I’m taking with me:

So often, the barrier isn’t capability. It’s avoidance.
It’s the story we tell ourselves about who we are allowed to become.

For years, I told myself I was “the writer.” The one behind the scenes. The one polishing other people’s words. And I love that role — deeply.

But we are allowed to expand.

We are allowed to add dimensions.

We are allowed to test our edges.