Thank you Alice: How I Overcame My Fear of Public Speaking

This article is a story that was brought out of me during a recent Airbnb online experience in creative writing. The prompt made me think about memories in my life that tie together that make who you are today. The memories I choose to connect was how I conquered my biggest fear in public speaking and entered a life I never knew I could have (spoiler alert: In Batman-type fashion, instead of bats, I emersed myself in my biggest fear by building my first company around public speaking).

For all those people that I coach that claim, "I'm an introvert" or "I just can't be a great public speaker," I hope this story shows you that you can.

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Whenever people tell me that they are introverts and can't be great presenters, I remind them that not all great presenters are born. Most have to overcome significant challenges in their life and have a profound reason to share what they believe.

My story on how I learned to be an effective communicator is no different.

In December 2004, I got fired from my favorite clothing store when I was 15 years old. Technically, it was "you're off the schedule," but we all know what that means. It was a bummer because

1. I was a big fan of the clothing they sold,
2. I needed the money to buy my then-girlfriend a Christmas present, and
3. it was because of my inability to connect with people as a greeter.

In my manager's Alice's mind, she thought that while I was an introvert, my passion for the products would help me overcome my lack of communication. It hurt the most when we both realized I couldn't meet her expectations. I was a loser that couldn't communicate the products he loved.

Fast forward to 2011, I was 21 years old and am a sophomore at Louisiana State University, participating in a business organization's speaker session. The speaker was a Fortune 500 executive, and I was in charge of handling his slides. I'll never forget the feeling when I pulled up his PowerPoint 200 slides popped up. I reminded him he had 30 minutes. He told me he is a professional speaker and that he's well aware. 

Whoops.

Three hours later, the guy is still on the stage. 

That sure showed me. 

If you guessed that he was reading off every single slide, you're right. Bonus points if you think that he laughed at his jokes and answered his questions.

While I was sitting down, I thought to myself, "If these so-called "professionals" are presenting like this, what are the chances that the next big idea in the world is missed due to ineffective communication?"

 That's when an idea hit me.

Why are presentations so dull?

What if there was a company that could rid the world of boring presentations?

Inspired by the movie Big Fish, how could we help people, aka "small fish," present their ideas and stories like "big fish"?

The curiosity behind these questions led to the idea of my first company, Big Fish Presentations. The mission was to rid the world of boring presentations with the company's promise to turn any client's presentation into an experience. I told this idea to my childhood best friend, Gus Murillo, who happened to be sitting near me. He thought it was intriguing and a significant problem to solve in the world. We committed to solving it together. It was then a college sophomore, and freshman began building a firm specializing in designing presentations and coaching public speakers.

One year later, we had built a portfolio of clients. Cold-calling executives, we found that leaders that want to be influential always wanted better presentations. Within the first three months of being in business, we picked up some of Louisiana's most significant companies like Raising Canes and Blue Cross Blue Shield, Louisiana. The business began picking up further when publications like Inc. and Entrepreneur featured us because of our niche in designing great presentations and coaching presenters. People quickly rallied behind our mission of ridding the world of boring presentations. Within 12 months, we were an official business with four employees and an actual office. 

However, there was a problem. I was still in college. 

Things were getting tight as my time had become more demanding. From going to class, taking a flight right after school to coach clients, then flying back the following morning to make an afternoon class, there was little balance in my life. This imbalance would eventually lead me to become an ineffective CEO due to a lack of focus and commitment.

Something had to change.

I decided to schedule an appointment with the LSU Office of Student Affairs.

One week later, I met my student affairs counselor Stacy. She was someone I quickly knew that didn't put up with excuses and was very stubborn. What I loved about her the most was that she never held back and told things like it is, which made our first conversation so much more shocking. After briefly speaking to her about my inability to balance time between my startup and school, she knew that I had to choose. She recommended that I learn the startup ropes with a new business in town that her students kept asking her about. The twist? The firm's name was Big Fish Presentations—my firm. I realized I never told her the name of my company before any part of our chat. When she found out that I was a co-founder, her mentoring approach quickly changed. She leaned in and said three questions that would change my life.

"Let me ask you something, Mr. Nguyen. If you weren't in college, what would you do?"

Without hesitation, I responded, "I would do Big Fish Presentations."

She asked, "Then why don't you quit college and do that now?"

I made the sorry excuse, "Well, my family would be disappointed if I don't finish."

She paused, then finally asked, "Won't you be more disappointed in yourself if you waste your time here?"

That counselor's last question is why I will always feel love for LSU. The university hires great quality people that cared about the student more than the tuition money. Stacy is why I will always be an LSU Tiger.

That moment eventually led me to drop out of LSU two months later and chase my dream of ridding the world of boring presentations.

On the way out of Stacy's office, she asked me if I could do her a favor; share Big Fish Presentations' secrets of engaging presentations to LSU students. I told her no problem. By now, as our company's chief pitchman, I rapidly improved my public speaking game to show clients that we embody all the tactics we preached. Within a year, from speaking at conferences on how to create better presentations to mock-delivering clients our recommended versions of their speeches, I logged hundreds of hours learning and practicing the art of communication.

These hundreds of hours were the therapy my 15-year old self needed.

Becoming a better presenter was an uncomfortable process as I still buried the painful feelings of my 15-year old self getting fired for "not being able to communicate." Luckily, being the son of two hard yet caring immigrant parents always reminded me that overcoming hardships builds character. I decided at 15 years old that I was going to take that experience as a lesson. 

My first opportunity to learn was about a year later when my grandfather Dam Nguyen passed away. The family asked if a representative from the grandchildren would like to give a eulogy. Seeing it as a chance to overcome my fear, I took it as a silver-lining gift from my grandfather. I decided to step up and partner with my cousin Z to deliver a speech that can reflect his honor. 

We stayed up multiple nights to write and rehearse the speech. 

Throughout the process, butterflies kept erupting in my stomach. I remember thinking to myself so many different feelings.

What if I suck onstage and tarnish his legacy?

What if I stutter and stumble?

What if I cry in the middle of my speech and look weak? **

** Note: Ironically, today, I would say it's refreshing to cry on stage, and it's ok to stutter and stumble. Just be the best version of yourself and keep the audience in mind first over yourself. Sadly, I didn't have today's version of myself around to act as a presentation coach. 

On the day of the speech, I and Z both tag-teamed the speech. I decided that the only way to overcome my fears was just to do it. Our speech started very strong, recapping funny stories we shared as children with my grandfather. It was great until my part where I was supposed to deliver the critical line "family comes first" to reflect one of my grandfather's fundamental teachings.

My voice cracked. Bad.

What made it worse that even some members of my family started laughing.

All those previous agonizing feelings of self-doubt came back into my head. Unsurprisingly, more anxiety and questions hit me.

Did I just fail this lesson?

Did I just embarass Z?

Did I just embarrass our grandfather?

I wanted to jump out of my body and run away. 

Yet, something kept me there. Something told me that even though I embarrassed myself, it brought laughter to an otherwise somber situation. I should just power through.

After the speech, my father, Kevin, took the stage. Representing my grandfather's children, he was delivering the eulogy on their behalf. It made sense for him to be the representative as he was the son that everyone looked up to. My father was a self-made millionaire that was a Vietnam War refugee that came by boat. While full of riches from his businesses, he gives a significant amount of wealth to the poor (even helping build the local Buddhist temple, Tam Bao). The man put himself through college with three jobs while sending money for his family in Vietnam. Even back in college, he was a loud voice for the Vietnamese community and was known to be a phenomenal speaker. As a father, though, he was critical, strict, and very much one that didn't let you get away with much (when I was born his career as an FBI agent). Despite his intensity in raising me, he is the man I looked up to the most.

He started his speech with a booming voice controlling the room's emotions. His tone was reflective of the stories he shared about what kind of man his father was. His expressions ranged from somber, happiness, to even regret. As he told his stories, he reflected on the importance of being a dad and how his father was an amazing one. He wrapped his speech with a saying that left such a substantial impact on the crowd.

"Any man can be a father, but it takes a real man to be a dad."

I would like to note that his voice did not crack.

After the funeral, I was sitting down with my father at lunch. We were sharing our experiences from the day and how grateful we were to have each other. In the space of deep vulnerability, I shared my embarrassment of my voice cracking during the eulogy and how I felt disappointed by my grandfather.

While I was expecting a, "yeah, you blew it," from him, my dad took a long pause and surprised me by saying, "Not many children would have the guts to get on stage and share the stories you did. Please don't let that discourage you from sharing those feelings inside of your heart. Keep practicing, and you will get better. I was very proud of what you did today."

Those words changed my life forever.

I decided that day that I was going to throw myself at opportunities to deliver speeches. I wanted to hear those words again and prove my father right. After taking leadership roles in my high school's student organizations, I began embracing the discomfort and started speaking in public. **

**Note: Today, my father records my speeches and shares them with his friends. I think the humor him by watching them, but some do surprise me with specific mentions of critical points I made during the talks that tell me they enjoyed listening.

Fast forward back to my student counselor's Stacy's office. I asked her for a date to speak, and she gave me one four weeks from then. I went home and prepared extensively for my presentation. Albeit briefly, a feeling of nervousness overtook me. However, after hundreds of hours of developing and delivering client presentations, I was confident that I could bring value to the audience. That nervousness turned to excitement. 

Four weeks later, I delivered a speech on how to give better presentations to LSU's business students. The presentation was well-received with students asking questions, laughing at key jokes, and even participating in exercises. As I was wrapping up, I noticed a semi-familiar face in the audience that was participating in the fun.

That person looked just like Alice. 

Yes, the manager who fired the 15-year old me. 

She was enjoying a presentation on communications from the guy that she fired that couldn't communicate.

Here's the thing, I'm sure she was right. 

All the pain that I had to go through to where I was on stage was because I wasn't born a communicator. I was a natural introvert that had to learn that excellent communication required learning how to engage with an audience through a sense of empathy, read body language at any moment to modify your delivery, and the know-how to make any subject relevant and exciting. 

As we locked eyes, I wondered if she recognized me. I debated if she knew that I knew who she was. I questioned if it was her. To her, I could have been just another temp holiday employee. To me, she was a significant reason that I was who I was. Whatever it may be, the feeling of immediately calling her out crowded my mind. In my mind, I wanted to let her know what that feeling of embarrassment meant to me.

Despite the temptation to get my version of justice, I didn't take it.

Instead, I wrapped up my speech and thanked the crowd.

I realized that I had many reasons to be thankful. 

Not saying anything privately to her ended up being my biggest regret of the night.

I wish I could thank her for that harsh lesson.

If I see her again, I'll make sure that my first words are, "Thank you, Alice."