Public speaking has never been my thing. I’ve always been more comfortable doing than talking – more at ease working behind the scenes than standing in front of people. But over time, I realized that if I wanted to connect with people the way I truly wanted to – firefighters, peers, those walking the same road – I’d have to get better at saying the hard things out loud.
I’ve played music most of my life – drums for about 30 years – but for the last 14, I’ve been fronting a band. When I first started singing, it was rough. Awkward. Honestly, painful for everyone involved. But I knew if I stayed with it, it would teach me something I couldn’t learn any other way.
Early on, I thought a few drinks might make it easier, might loosen me up. They didn’t. They made everything worse – dried out my throat, killed focus, and gave me a false sense of control. You can’t outdrink nerves, and you can’t fake calm. The only way through it was to keep doing it – sober, uncomfortable, and real—until it stopped feeling like survival and started feeling like freedom.
Finding Strength in Discomfort
I formed that band knowing exactly why I was doing it. I wanted to get better at being in front of people, at communicating, at connecting. I wasn’t going to join a public speaking class once a week and stand in a fluorescent-lit room reading note cards. Singing gave me something that made sense to me. It mixed discomfort with something I loved, surrounded me with people, and let me fail forward in real time.
Over the years, that stage became training for another one – the one where I now stand in front of firefighters, sharing my story.
What’s funny is that all those reps – on stage, in front of crowds – weren’t really about performing at all. They were about presence. About learning how to be in a moment and not run from it. That’s what I feel now when I speak: not a performance, but a connection. It’s not about being perfect, it’s about being there.
Presence Over Perfection
Ironically, singing should probably be harder than speaking. When I sing, I’m often covering someone else’s song – something that was never mine to begin with. Sometimes the fit isn’t right, or the key’s off, or I’m still learning the words. In the early days, it didn’t always sound great, but I did it anyway.
Over time, I learned to step into those songs without hesitation. Yet when I get up to speak about my own story – something I actually lived – I can still feel that hesitation creeping in. It doesn’t make sense on paper, but that’s how growth works.
Every time I share my story, it changes me a little. Every time a firefighter comes up afterward and shares theirs, it reminds me why I keep doing it. Those conversations – the quick ones in the hallway, the quiet ones by the door – are the real takeaways. They’re honest, unfiltered, and human. When you hear someone open up in that way, it hits deeper than words can reach. You realize you’re both standing in the same storm, just holding different umbrellas.
Not Backing Down
Once it’s over, I always feel a quiet sense of accomplishment – not because of applause or approval, but because I didn’t step aside from the thing that made me uncomfortable. I’m not fearing it anymore, just working through it. Each time I do, I get a little more comfortable in my own skin. Watching great speakers inspires me deeply, and I know that’s the direction I need to move in. My desire to do it outweighs my uncertainty, even when it’s hard. I’m proud afterward – not in a self-congratulatory way, but because I didn’t back down. I showed up, even when it would have been easier not to.
You don’t learn how to swim by talking about it or watching someone else do it. You learn by getting in the water. At 47, that lesson still feels new – hard, humbling, but freeing. The older I get, the more I appreciate that every time I leave home and spend time around firefighters, I come back with something new. A reminder. A story. A sense that we’re all different versions of the same fight.
Here’s the truth: everything we put effort into connects somewhere down the line. The things we practice, the places we stumble, the courage we build – it all links back. Every honest connection sends a ripple further than we realize. We’re all built differently, but we’re all trying to find the same thing: something real enough to feel.
Comfort shows up where repetition lives, not where truth is hiding.
