It Turns Out Santa Brought Me More Than Toys

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a pretty intense fear and overwhelming anxiety when it came to public speaking. I never thought I’d be able to stand in front of people without making a fool of myself or completely losing my train of thought.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but, like in every post-communist neighborhood kindergarten, we had an end-of-year celebration right before Christmas. There were too many of us to fit inside the kindergarten hall, which was tiny.

One genuinely good idea from the management was to organize the celebration in a nearby exhibition hall. It was huge. They had also arranged for Santa Claus to come. To us kids, that was something extraordinary.

The show starts, and it’s our turn. We begin reciting poems and singing Christmas carols. The format was simple: between songs, each child would step forward and say their poem. I didn’t pay much attention to the audience, even though there seemed to be a lot of people there. I was completely absorbed by a beautiful Christmas tree standing to the right and by the thought that maybe Santa Claus would actually show up.

As I said, for a child growing up in a modest neighborhood, this was something I had never seen before.

But, as luck would have it, I was interrupted in my contemplation of the tree and the possibility of seeing Santa. It was my turn. We had been prepared to recite our poems so that everyone could hear us. There was a small platform, and we had to take a few steps forward, speak loudly and clearly, and make everyone proud.

I walked up with my head down because, all of a sudden, it felt like there were a hundred times more people than before.

The moment I lifted my head and looked at the crowd, I felt overwhelmed. I forgot everything I was supposed to say. The only things running through my mind were that I was going to embarrass myself and disappoint my mother.

The only thing I managed to do was burst into tears.

I went back to my place, and the celebration carried on. I felt deeply ashamed that I hadn’t been able to say my poem. Looking back, I think that was the moment when I started becoming reluctant to speak in front of groups of people, let alone in public. Back then, public speaking seemed completely impossible.

And, to top it all off, that poor guy dressed up as Santa told me I wasn’t getting anything because I hadn’t said my poem.

Yeah. That’s how things worked.

As time went on, I started noticing that I had developed a few tics whenever I felt that people’s attention was on me. I would uncontrollably touch my face, brushing away imaginary dust from my forehead or cheeks. I kept wondering how I could get rid of it all. How could I overcome this fear?

Recently, I started a new job at a corporation. For a long time, I had avoided these kinds of places without really knowing what they were actually like.

One of the best things about working here is that we regularly have meetings where people discuss topics related to our field. There was a subject that I found particularly interesting, but I always preferred to do all the work behind the scenes — the documentation, the slides — and let someone else present it.

My goal was always the discussion itself, the exchange of ideas, not being in the spotlight.

Given the fact that I get anxious even when speaking in online meetings with more than three people, I somehow ended up being the one who had to give the presentation.

The moment I realized that, my anxiety skyrocketed. I wanted to back out countless times and simply let it go.

Nothing terrible would have happened if I had canceled the presentation. But at the same time, I kept asking myself: am I really incapable of talking about something that I know well and that I built myself?

Even if someone disagrees with me, why should that matter? It’s supposed to be a constructive discussion, and the truth is never absolute.

The days kept passing, and the anxiety kept growing. I wrote my speech, worked on the slides, and prepared myself. I had every important point written down just in case I got lost and needed something to fall back on.

Then came the big day.

My stress levels were through the roof, but I kept telling myself that, in an hour, it would all be over. But did I actually want it to be over? No. That wasn’t really the point. The point was the discussion. The point was the solution I wanted to present and the usefulness behind it.

Still, I couldn’t focus on that. The only things on my mind were how I was going to embarrass myself again, how I’d probably keep touching my face, how nervous and awkward I would look.

The presentation started.

The room wasn’t packed. It wasn’t some grand event. But there were around thirty people there, and going from three to thirty felt like crossing an ocean.

I introduced myself. Funny enough, I’ve always felt uncomfortable doing that. Talking about myself feels like bragging. Even though everything I’ve achieved came through hard work and years of learning, I still haven’t completely gotten over that feeling.

The presentation begins. I’m doing fine. My notes are right next to me. I’m fully prepared.

Then, right at the end of my introduction, while mentioning which team I’m part of, I accidentally say one of my colleagues’ names wrong.

And inside my head, all I could think was: “How can you possibly be this stupid? You can’t even get that right?”

Meanwhile, I was dying inside.

But the people in the audience reacted well. I laughed, moved on, and kept going. Everyone was paying close attention, but to me it felt as if they were analyzing me and waiting for me to make a mistake.

In reality, they weren’t interested in me. They were interested in what I was presenting.

Still, one thought remained: at my age, I couldn’t exactly get away with bursting into tears anymore, so I had no choice but to continue.

Halfway through the presentation, I stumbled over my words a couple of times because of my nerves, and then I suddenly realized something.

I hadn’t looked at my notes even once.

I hadn’t touched my face.

None of the tics were there.

How was that even possible? I was shocked. Had I really become so focused on the presentation itself?

What’s more, I was actually looking at the audience.

And at that moment, something in my head switched to: fuck it. What’s the worst that could happen if I make a mistake? So what if I stutter or lose my train of thought? I can always stop and start over.

From that point on, everything became much smoother.

I realized that people are surprisingly encouraging in moments like these. They had probably noticed that I was nervous, and instead of judging me, they simply listened.

What helped me the most was the Q&A session at the end. We actually had a conversation, and that’s when I understood that people had been paying attention to the presentation itself, not to me.

That gave me confidence because I realized that I had managed to communicate what I wanted to say and that the real goal had been achieved.

I understood that you don’t have to be perfect when presenting something and that a lot of my anxiety had been built on assumptions.

Still, I wish I had the confidence of those people who can say all sorts of nonsense without feeling embarrassed. There were times when I didn’t even have the courage to say things that were true and right.

I’ll present again.

I still get nervous, but it’s no longer anxiety in the way it used to be. Giving that presentation turned out to be a very good idea, and I’m grateful to the people who gave me the opportunity.

It seems that Santa Claus brought me more than toys and sweets when I was a child.