Snapshots of my TED Talk in Chicago.
I’ve written several anecdotes from my experience leading up to, during, and after my TED Talk which took place in Chicago in October of this year. Join me on the journey below!
My dress rehearsal went horribly.
Tricia Brouk was my only audience member. She'd been by my side through this whole process, and had way more faith in me than I did from the beginning about how it was going to go.
She was beaming at me from the back of the hotel room and it was all I could do to field every thought that had nothing to do with my talk that came up for me.
My mind was lured into the bathroom faucet's reflection on the wall, the texture of the carpet, the lighting, Tricia's bright beaming eyes and massive heart...basically everything and anything that pulled me out of my own body.
"Don't make eye contact or you'll lose it completely." I told myself
I couldn't focus, stuttering on every other sentence, and completely blanking on large sections of my talk.
I felt so vulnerable, so unbelievably wobbly. Our run-through the day before had gone so well we both cried and I had hoped for the same outcome here, too. The truth was, even though I thought it was horrible, Tricia still cried. She was proud even when I wasn't.
I knew, from my years of performing as a musician, that a bad dress rehearsal is usually a good sign, and that kept my sometimes ruthless perfectionism at bay.
I'm convinced bad dress rehearsals happen for an important reason. They soften us so that we can still be receptive to the audience come show-time. If we go in too confident, we show up disconnected and risk not making that essential first connection that allows us to take the audience on a journey *with* us. Without our vulnerability, we end up dragging them along for the ride, and ultimately losing them completely.
And when our mission is to make a movement, to start a ripple, to have real impact, our only choice is to show up heart cracked wide open and fully surrendered, ready to be lead.
I had a curling iron in my hair and was in a robe when front desk called me to tell me they wanted me to move rooms.
My jumpsuit was still wrinkled from the room change I had made the day before and the three hours it spent sitting in a bag during that move while I was out getting a massage somewhere north of Chicago.
Since 6am that morning, a hammering noise was rattling the picture frames on the walls in my room, and the hotel was doing what they could to make it right.
They had no idea that this was one of the most important days of my life. "I can't pack up my stuff right now and move rooms, I literally have a curling iron in my hair and need to be at a theater for a dress rehearsal in an hour and still haven't ironed my outfit."
Before I knew it, the front desk manager was in my room with me, ironing my jumpsuit and putting my clothes back into my suitcase for the third day in a row, while I finished getting my hair and makeup done.
I headed toward Malcom X theater in the afternoon having no idea what was to come of my belongings when I got back later that night, or for that matter, what was to come of me once my talk was over. I had been singularly focused on this moment in time for three months.
I got back to the hotel at 11pm and had been upgraded to a suite the size of my apartment. Three different rooms, three nights in a row, and finally, this one felt right-sized.
I blinked and it was over.
I remember glimmers of moments, like what it felt like to stand on stage and hold space for the audience for 10 seconds at the very beginning while they got increasingly uncomfortable with the silence I was sharing with them, and the moment everyone laughed at my joke about how audacious it was for me to suggest doing a talk where we all were just quiet for 18 minutes ("These aren't called TED Listens, they're called TED Talks."), and the speed at which Tricia, Alexandra, Sarah, Josephine, Barrie, and Pamay leapt from their seats to give me a standing ovation when it was over and not knowing when was a good time to leave the stage upon receiving that.
I remember the doubt I had for an hour afterward that I must've left something out, and the moment I expanded so tremendously — when I realized I hadn't and that the true experience was that I had really completely totally commanded the stage — that I left my body and didn't come back for 24 hours.
Five minutes before I went on stage, I felt my heart expand to ten times its size.
I knew in that moment that my community was online.
I'm not talking about the internet.
My people were tuning into the global intuitive OG of wifi: the limbic system, and I could feel each of them in their own unique flavors as they tuned in.
Around the globe people were singing, praying, and holding space for me at the time I was due to deliver my talk.
In that moment, I got to be a beacon for a worldwide web of love.
I had never experienced something quite so profound and expansive before in my life.
I could feel the boundless tendrils of support holding me, and as I relaxed into it, I knew: I'm no longer driving this ship.
And then I let go and let god.
This is the thing I remember the most vividly. This is the thing I will never forget about my experience delivering my first TED Talk. The rest of the details of how it went or what I talked about or how people responded will forever and always pale in comparison to the deep experiential knowing that I am being exquisitely held, and that together, we are powerful beyond measure.
Together, we can do anything.