“I can make you scared, it’s kind of what I do
If you’re prepared, here’s what I propose to do.“
— Scared, The Tragically Hip
I am reasonably scared of public speaking.
It used to be a lot worse—I used to be terrified of it. When I was a master’s student, just starting to do computer science research, I went to a small workshop in Bertinoro, Italy to present a paper that I’d written. It was my first time presenting my own work in front of an audience that wasn’t a classroom of other students, and I went back to my room and vomited every single day after lunch from Monday to Thursday. I threw up from the anxiety of imagining how badly it might go.
And I’m sure you think you know how this story goes; that actually I did the talk and it was a great moment of personal development. But in fact, I did the talk and it was not fine. After a week of fairly monotonic talks from other students, mostly about math and distributed systems, I stood up and talked about some ideas on how I thought operating systems should be built differently. It turned out that the authors of Plan 9, an operating system from Bell Labs, were in the audience and they thought, “Here, finally, is a paper that we can fight about,” and they gave me a reaction to the paper that can most generously be described as “firmly critical.” It was a bloodbath. They spent a solid ten minutes telling me about all the flaws in my thinking, and as I left the stage rattled, I was reasonably confident that I never, ever, wanted to do a public talk again.
But, wow, I enjoyed building systems, and I really loved doing research and learning about the absolute newest things that were happening in our field. And there was no real way to move on in that career without having to present my work to audiences. And so I did a thorough exploration of a lot of ways of getting talks wrong. I froze awkwardly under questioning. I paced back and forth on a recorded talk, spending most of my time off‑camera and flying across the middle of the frame like a tennis ball every 45 seconds or so. At one point, I actually fell backwards off of a stage into the curtains. But it was always the hours before getting on stage that were the worst. It was the lead‑up that gave me the most anxiety, and even today, I feel it.
Since I’m having a moment of honesty here, I may as well admit that it’s not just talks that scare me. I’ve actually spent a lot of my career moving from one anxiety‑provoking event to another. There’s all the social stuff that you’d expect would terrify an introvert: talking to people in the hallway at conferences, having meetings with very senior people, being interviewed, and speaking up in group discussions. But it’s non‑social things too: pushing to make important changes in system designs, starting a business, escalating for help because I know something isn’t working right on a team. It’s a thing that’s maybe obvious in retrospect, but I think every single moment where my skills—and probably also my character—have moved forward, have involved being at least a little bit uncomfortable.
In hindsight, these scary (and occasionally terrifying) moments are the ones that we all learn the most from.
Now, this isn’t a very new observation. In fact, over a century ago, the Yerkes‑Dodson law observed that there is a clear relationship between arousal (let’s say, stress) and performance. And that there’s a bell‑shaped curve where we perform optimally under heightened stress, but then performance falls off as that anxiety becomes overwhelming and distracting. I’m sure we’ve all experienced the range here from adrenaline‑fueled clarity to stage‑freezing panic. The bottom line for me, though, is that fear is actually a pretty good signal that you are pushing into the unknown, that real growth doesn’t happen without a bit of that associated discomfort, and that it’s worth becoming aware when it happens. Aware enough to consider actually leaning into it.
As we move on in our careers and into leadership roles, our relationship with fear shifts. It’s no longer just about your own bravery, but also helping others take risks. If you think back on those anxious moments that have shaped you, I’m sure you can agree that they’ve also helped you grow. This is an observation that I find really helpful in managing and mentoring. Even asking simple questions, like “What scares you right now?” or “How are you stretching yourself?” can be a great starting point to encourage the people you are invested in to push themselves.
Similarly, being attuned to your own reaction with fear, whether it’s locking up or becoming combative, or changing subjects, is something to learn to spot in others, because it’s often a critical moment where you can step in and really help move a conversation forward. People don’t lean into anxiety unless they feel passionate about an outcome, so there’s almost always something to it as a leader.
Bravery isn’t loud. It’s a quiet sort of persistence. I think it’s important to realize that these moments are rarely impulsive, reckless, or full of bravado—it’s the fact that we have to choose a difficult path with our eyes open that almost exactly defines trying to improve, and as you start to think about it, I think you’ll start to see these moments all around you. Just watch, for example, for the person who rarely asks questions in a meeting as they speak up with a challenging question. Once you spot it, it’s a wonderful thing and it’s also a meaningful opportunity to support in the moment or compliment after the fact.
After your week at re:Invent, a little bit separated from the routine of the rest of the year, I think it’s worth reflecting on this fact—growth happens on the edges of discomfort. And while you’re thinking about it, maybe ask yourself what one single thing scares you this week, and whether or not you can just go do it.