Page 32 - Voices 6.2017

From Podcaster to Toastmasters

by Emily Halnon

A podcast was my The disconnect between my written and verbal
breaking point. storytelling is as vast as Antarctica.”
My friend is the “Have you heard of Toastmasters?” was my
host of a popular show confidant’s response.
and invited me to be I hadn’t. Or I might have mustered up the
a guest. courage to attend my first meeting years ago.
My initial reaction was that I would rather This is why asking for help should probably
plunge headfirst into Indiana Jones’s snake pit not be my last resort as frequently as it is. It
than engage in extemporaneous conversation turns out, when you actually ask, you shall often
for thousands of listeners, but I didn’t want to receive really good help in return.
be a bad friend, so I said yes. Reluctantly. I went to my first meeting that very week. I
This particular friendship started online didn’t sleep much that night either. I wasn’t sure
and continues to function primarily over the exactly what to expect from this mysterious
internet. We live across the country and never Toastmasters thing but I was certain it would
get to meet for coffee or talk on the phone, it’s be uncomfortable.
all twitter and hashtags and texts, where she My inaugural foray with a local club was as
finds me hilarious and articulate. But those are terrifying as I knew it would be. My armpits
my safe spaces. Where I can carefully craft all were as damp as the Pacific Northwest, my face
of my thoughts and sentences before putting was flushed to the shade of a tomato for most
them out in the world. of the 90 minutes, and my stomach earned its
You can’t do that on a podcast. Or around a spot on the Team USA gymnastics squad with
conference table. Or in front of a crowd. an extended stream of somersaults during the
Those are paralyzing spaces. round of introductions.
The podcast was a disaster. At least
according to the judge and jury in my
head. I chased our recording session
with a sleepless night where I tirelessly
beat myself up for everything I said
wrong, or didn’t say, or could have said
better. I composed a small novel in
my head outlining a very compelling
counterargument—against myself.
When I got out of bed the next
morning, and realized I might struggle
to find a publishing house that would
print my internal diatribe—or a single
human interested in reading it—I finally
vocalized the insecurity that had been
plaguing me for years.
“My confidence is shot. I can’t speak
in public. And by ‘public’, I mean a Skype
conversation for a stupid podcast. Or in
front of a small handful of colleagues.
And certainly not with a large audience.

32 VOLUME 3 ISSUE 12 JUNE, 2017