Fear Itself

On running from panic

I had my first panic attack in 6th grade, while giving a speech as one of two candidates for the esteemed position of student body secretary. VP didn’t feel attainable, but secretary? I felt destined for that mid-tier glory.

I practiced my speech for days, pacing around the dining room table, pausing knowingly after jokes until the imaginary laughter died down. I felt that this speech I’d written wasn’t just good, but great. I saw myself up there slaying. I was ready. 

I was a small, skinny kid with uneven, home-cut blond hair.  I was generally nervous in class, but in that quieter setting, speaking hadn’t been a noticeable problem. This, though, getting up in front of the entire school, would be a first.

The principal called my name, and I walked up the few steps onto the stage, reached the mic and podium, and looked out at the auditorium with hundreds of people, all the students and faculty, everyone staring at me. 

Waiting. For me to just say something. Anything.

I couldn’t breathe—everything went blurry. Half blacked out from fear, I stammered a few words in between gasps for air, trying to hang onto this speech I thought I’d known cold. I delivered the one joke I could remember in a quiet monotone, and it landed in total silence. Finding the next word felt like spooning around for a lone raisin in a bowl of porridge.

I gasped a few more half-sentences, forgot the last section completely, and then it was over. Under the lightest smattering of applause, I walked back to find my place in the audience. I shuffled down the row and retook my seat next to my friend David. As I regained my senses, all I could feel was a clenching shame. 

“Was that terrible?” I asked David.

He paused for a long while. “I don’t know,” he said. “You just sounded really tired.”

We watched together as my opponent, Rachel, spoke calmly and beautifully, sealing the deal. 

I suppose there are people—maybe most people?—who naturally grow more confident in public speaking as they get older. Childhood nerves just evaporate over time, leaving them with this gift—being able to stand up there and captivate a room. 

This is what I so desperately hoped for, but instead I felt more embarrassed and worried about my public speaking fear as I got older. It was a full-blown phobia, which didn’t seem to respond well to all the thinking and the trying I met it with.

This phobia felt like a dirty little secret, something I shouldn’t still be dealing with “at my age.” I felt this at every age. High school. College. Beyond.

In my 20’s, as a guitarist in a band, I downed two vodka shots before every show. Three shots, and I’d start flubbing notes, but two felt like the sweet spot. We were dropped by our label before that slippery coping mechanism spiraled much further.

The lead singer and I then started a music company with a few other partners, which meant that in my late 20’s, I was now a co-founder. The singer (now CEO) was a world-class public speaker, always happy to gab away at investor pitches and big client meetings. Sometimes, though, I’d have to do the talking.

At a major music conference, I was chatting with a group of musicians at our booth, telling them about our company, enjoying myself in this casual setting. There was a roving camera team a few booths away, and our marketing director spotted them. 

“Oh, they’re interviewing founders!” she said. “Let me pull them over to talk to you!” She started waving at them like a maniac. They turned our way.

The fear hit. Panic was rolling over me, fast. I knew just what to do.

Did I face it bravely? I did not. I ran.

“I just have to get something quickly—I’ll be back!” I called out to our confused marketing director. I left the huddle of musicians and bolted from our booth, weaving quickly into the conference crowds. I did not come back. 

“Sorry, family emergency,” I told the marketing director later. 

It was classical musicians who saved me. I came across a New York Times piece about dealing with performance anxiety. One musician said of performing, "My hands were so cold and wet, I thought I'd drop my flute.” I don’t play the flute, but if I did, I would worry about dropping it the whole time.

The same musician then reported: "After the first time I tried it, I never looked back. It's fabulous to feel normal for a performance." It, I learned, was propranolol, a beta blocker. 

Feeling normal sounded incredible. I immediately found a shrink who specialized in performance anxiety. Before we discussed medication, he suggested I try his “viking method,” which he was writing a book about. 

“Before you walk onto a stage, think to yourself, I am a viking,” he said. “Vikings go into battle ready to die. It’s basically a mindset of BRING IT ON, FUCKERS!” 

“I love that,” I said, “But can I also try propranolol?” He shrugged and wrote me a prescription. I felt like the viking who was too scared to leave the boat.

Propranolol doesn’t work for everyone, but for me, it was magic.

I initially worried that I’d feel narc’d and dopey, but instead, taking a pill an hour before speaking simply let me feel like myself. I felt free, and unbelievably normal. My whole life changed.

Propranolol suppresses the body’s panic response, lowering blood pressure, keeping the pulse slow and steady. When I first took it and spoke at an event, I actually felt the trigger where panic would normally surge, and then… nothing. It’s like a velvet gloved hand covers the panic button, and says, It’s okay, we don’t need that right now.

I built a career as a startup founder and executive, thanks in part to propranolol. I gave wedding speeches, feeling completely present and happy. I loved doing presentations. I told stories on stage. I was actually pretty decent at speaking, it turned out.

I don’t read as anxious in most settings—usually quite the opposite. I taught Muay Thai classes to large groups with no meds and no issue. Phobias are unpredictable. It was just this one thing that got me, speaking publicly when I felt it was “important.” What that was, exactly, was hard to predict.

Using beta blockers isn’t foolproof. Needing an hour’s advance warning isn’t ideal, for one. Propranolol would not have saved me from the roving camera team popping over for an interview. 

I was also embarrassed by needing to use beta blockers, and I hid from others. It fit into a narrative I had about something being wrong with me. In a way, I felt I’d just swapped one dirty little secret for another.

I decided to take another swing at confronting my anxiety. I signed up for a course from Speakmeister, run by speaking coach (and former panic attack sufferer) Dr. Cheryl Matthews. In a controlled setting, I practiced speaking in front of groups, without beta blockers. After that, I started joining larger groups, including Ultraspeaking courses. I’ve since started facilitating groups for other speakers.

Here’s an approach I believe will help anyone dealing with a public speaking phobia:

1. Find a way to practice speaking that triggers some anxiety, but ideally not full-blown panic.

   Experiencing major panic can strengthen the fear response, so you want to find the right level of fear to confront, and build up slowly, at your own pace.
   

2. Repeat, at least weekly, if not more often. 

   Tristan de Montebello, co-founder of Ultraspeaking, and a finalist in the public speaking World Championships, said that when he doesn’t take up speaking opportunities consistently, he loses confidence. Keep at it, as much as you can.
   

3. When/if you get triggered, it’s okay. Be kind to yourself.
   This is the single most important component, by far, and one that I need to remind myself of, again and again. Going easier on yourself is such a life-changing thing.

Beta blockers are so helpful, but I see them as a bridge, not a crutch nor a cure-all. They’re a potentially very useful tool for people like me, who’ve experienced not just a bit of anxiety, but something that felt otherwise unmanageable.

What beta blockers ultimately gave me was the ability to learn to speak publicly without them. I enjoyed taking less propranolol, finding that uncomfortable edge, often skipping the pill entirely—seeing what it feels like to be nervous, but not freak out about it. More of a hey, there goes my heart beating fast again. I’ll survive. Feeling anxious and managing it actually feels amazing.

I almost never use propranolol now, but if I felt major anxiety about an upcoming speaking event, I’d consider it with zero qualms. The mindset shift is key, though: I stopped trying to rid myself of anxiety, and started learning how to tolerate it. It’s here, and that’s fine.

On that front, there’s so much else that’s helped, including breathwork, meditation, exercise, that ever-important self-compassion—so many practices that have significantly decreased my general anxiety over the years—but those are topics for future posts. 

Perhaps the most amazing, curious thing: every single person I’ve met who’s grappled with public speaking fear—dozens and dozens of people in multiple speaking programs—they’re invariably fascinating. They say the most surprising, funny, sweet, weird, and wonderful things. It’s unbelievable to me that they’ve been holding all of this back. 

That’s what I want for all of us, however we get there: to stand up and share our stories and the things we really care about. Stigmas hold people back. Fear holds people back, of course, more than anything. Calm voice or quavery voice—all that really matters is finding the breath to speak our truth.

If you enjoyed this post, please tap the heart ❤️ and share it with someone. I’d also love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Either way, I appreciate your being here.

Notes:

1. This post was partially inspired by a beautiful line in

   Rick Lewis
   ’s post last week about teachers, where he mentioned learning to “find our light and shine it without apology.” That’s been lingering in my mind all week.

2. I was also motivated by

   David McIlroy
   ’s excellent prompt: Tell a story about a problem you faced, what you tried, what eventually fixed it, and how others can do the same.