Alright, here we go.
I sat a bit more upright in my chair, lengthening my torso as high as it would reach. The Zoom application on my laptop reflected a black screen back toward me. My home office is small - a mere eight feet by eight feet - but it’s perfect for interviews, nestled deep in the second-floor recesses of our Southeast Detroit townhome. I watched as the clock ticked closer and closer to the top of the hour.
My dress shirt fit well - a little too well. Layers of throat-skin folded over the top of the collar, my neck feeling like an unflattering abdomen rolling over the tight waistline of last year’s jeans.
Two minutes.
I scanned the scene in front of me, noting the geography of my office desk: laptop and keyboard to the front, spare monitor to the left. Glass of water, blank notepad, and two pens to the right. I sipped the water and tugged at the tourniquet around my neck, noting that I’d need to shop for shirts soon.
Three months into unemployment, and it was a routine recruiter call for an attractive job opportunity. The role was a natural segue from my last job, where I’d spent months researching trends in the real estate industry for our executive team. Those research presentations were excruciating. I tried everything I could to calm myself down before them: meditation, fierce exercise, even expensive stress relief supplements. But no matter the regiment, as I waited to enter those calls, I was a train wreck. My heart, pumping blood from my swollen neck to my naked wrists, was a drum kit falling down a flight of stairs. It was a machine gun, pumping round after round of blood through my anxious frame. There are words for this experience, and I think “panic” is most precise.
On more than one occasion, I watched as the executive team exploded on an unassuming speaker, berating them for seemingly incongruous slights - little details, little mistakes, big reactions. Executive presentations quickly became the worst part of my job. I hated them. Presenting meant anxiety. It meant a hummingbird-like heart rate for thirty-odd minutes beforehand, a hold-your-breath-keep-your-head-down-move-move-move presentation, and a deep sigh of relief at the conclusion, knowing it would be several Sisyphean weeks before rolling the stone up the hill once more.
One minute.
I sipped my water again, noting my slow and steady pulse. I felt calm.
Before long, I’d grown to fear public speaking. Even the most low-stakes, routine meetings on my calendar demanded deep breaths and practice runs. During my first few weeks of unemployment, a second-round interview ended abruptly when I couldn’t stop myself from coughing. My throat went dry from nervousness.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I wondered. I’ve never lacked confidence like this.
My girlfriend volunteered to help. We sat in different rooms of the house, opened Zoom, and she feigned interviewer. We practiced dozens of questions dozens of times. I practiced in the mirror. Friends guided me through mock interviews. I leaned into tools like Lunchclub and signed up for formal case study competitions at school (which meant pitching to judges).
There’s a cliche about the way things change: gradually, then all at once. For months, presenting and interviewing were enormous hurdles. I slogged through hours of practice, carving out daily habits in order to improve.
And then, one day, I felt okay.
I’m not sure what to make of confidence, but it feels entirely rational. Like little law students, our brains look backwards, digging for a precedent to understand the present. A few good experiences seems enough to satisfy them. And if that’s true, then confidence isn’t a fixed character trait. It’s a habit.
I checked the clock, and saw two zeros following the digital colon. I breathed deeply, sipped my water, and adjusted my collar once more.
I felt at ease.