Who knew it was going to be that difficult.
My laptop screen had been open for an hour. The file name said Icebreaker Speech, but honestly, it might as well have said Existential Crisis. I’d typed three lines, deleted them, typed again, deleted again. The cursor blinked at me like it was judging my entire personality.
That’s when my roommate barged in, chewing on a biscuit like it was his dinner.
“Yo, did you hear?” he said, flopping on the bed. “Rohan got that college excellence award today. Faculty was all praises, man.”
Without looking up, I said, “Of course he did. That’s textbook teacher’s pet behavior. Every class has that one guy who acts like he’s in a committed relationship with the faculty.”
He burst out laughing. “You talk about people like you’re narrating a documentary. Effortless.”
“Yeah bro, he’s like that,” I replied casually.
But in my head, something shifted. What if he’s like that and still managed to write a speech about himself while I’m sitting here pretending the blinking cursor is deep?
He looked at my screen. “You’re still stuck on the intro?”
“Yup.”
He shook his head. “You can roast half the college in perfect sentences, but the moment you have to talk about yourself, you turn into a mute philosopher.”
I smirked. “That’s called humility.”
He grinned. “No, that’s called overthinking with a dash of identity crisis.”
Somehow, after what felt like hours of overthinking, caffeine, and imaginary brick-hitting therapy, I managed to squeeze out a draft. It wasn’t perfect, but it existed – which, at that point, felt like an achievement worthy of a standing ovation. But when the D-day arrived, I wasn’t so sure about that anymore.
D-Day: The Icebreaker
Every step toward the stage felt louder than it should. I walked up, smiled nervously, and started. “Good evening, fellow Toastmasters and guests… my name is Preetam.”
“I am from Nagpur, Maharashtra.”
(Me, overthinking at the back of my mind because there was a completely blank reaction from the audience, started wondering if I said something wrong.)
“I did my schooling from…” (At the back of my head, I was thinking, is there even a word called schooling, or am I just overthinking?)
After a while, my thoughts started racing faster than my speech, until the only thing left was silence. I forgot two pages of whatever I’d written about myself and was completely…
Blank.
Blank.
Just blank. My brain hit the world’s most awkward pause button, the kind that comes with the background music of regret.
Someone coughed. I smiled again – the kind of smile that says, yes, I am dying inside but politely.
Somehow, I stammered through the rest. It was rough, clumsy, and barely coherent. When I sat down, I was convinced that was the end of my short Toastmasters career.
But then something strange happened.
People clapped. Some smiled. One even said, “That was brave.” Later, during feedback, they didn’t ask me about my stumbles. They asked about me – who I was, what I liked, why I joined.
Turns out, everyone else had been equally terrified. Maybe even worse. And somehow, in that shared awkwardness, I got in.
Later that day
I was back in the room, still processing the whole thing. My roommate tossed a biscuit at me. “So, the philosopher spoke.”
“Yeah,” I said, catching it midair. “And messed up gloriously.”
He laughed. “Welcome to public speaking, my friend.”
A few days later, one of the seniors pulled me aside after the session. “Don’t worry,” she said with a grin, “You’ll get better. You can definitely hope to become the Most Improved Speaker someday.”
I smiled. Back then, I didn’t know that someday would be so…
Some stories don’t need neat endings. They pause right where curiosity begins – because that’s how life works. You don’t always get the full picture, just enough to know something’s taking shape. So, wait. Watch. Let it unfold.
Until next time.
The first time doesn’t have to be perfect — it just has to happen.
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