Finding My Voice

Series: AI as a Thinking Partner

About ten years ago, I found myself in a multi‑day personal development seminar — the kind of event that promises transformation but mostly feels like a stretch outside your comfort zone. I didn’t go there expecting anything dramatic. I certainly didn’t go there expecting to stand on a stage. But I had promised a close friend that I would participate fully, and that promise ended up pushing me into a moment that changed me.

On Day 3, the facilitator opened the stage for participants to share what they were gaining from the seminar. There were around 200–250 people in the room. For someone like me — someone who has spent most of his life behind a keyboard — that might as well have been a stadium.

A few people shared first. Then, because of that promise I’d made, I stood up.

I was visibly nervous. My knees were shaking. My voice felt thin. I was so far outside my comfort zone that I joked I was ready to p*ss myself. The facilitator asked how I was feeling, and I told the truth. He asked why I was up there, and I told the truth again: I had promised a friend I would participate, and I was getting a lot out of the seminar.

Then he asked about my professional life.
I told him I was a computer programmer — more comfortable behind a keyboard than in front of people.
He asked if I ever volunteered for leadership roles.
I admitted that I usually waited for someone to ask me if I was “qualified,” and that those opportunities rarely came.

It was awkward. It was vulnerable. It was honest.
And it was enough.

Later that day, the participants were asked to give feedback to others — three people who positively affected their experience, and three who negatively affected it. I didn’t expect anything. I figured I’d fade into the background again.

But five people approached me as their positive experience.
Three approached me as their negative experience.
All because I got up on stage and shared when they didn’t have the courage to do so.

That moment changed me.

I experienced empathy — real empathy. I realized that the fear I felt wasn’t unique. We all experience similar feelings. We all hesitate. We all worry about being judged, being unqualified, being seen. My nervousness wasn’t a flaw. It was a mirror.

And I realized something else:
My voice matters — not because I’m an expert, not because I’m a guru, but because I’m willing to speak when others can’t yet.

That moment taught me that courage is contagious. Vulnerability affects people. Honesty opens doors. And sometimes the simple act of speaking up gives someone else the courage to find their own voice.

I’m not here to teach from a mountaintop.
I’m not here to claim authority I don’t have.
I’m not here to pretend I’ve figured everything out.

I’m another person on this journey — one who has learned that speaking up matters. One who has learned that my voice carries weight, not because it’s perfect, but because it’s real. One who has learned that God uses ordinary people in extraordinary ways when they’re willing to step forward.

And that’s part of why I’m writing this series.

Not because I have all the answers.
Not because I’m trying to position myself as an expert in AI or recovery or faith.
But because I finally understand that my voice matters — and that someone else might need to hear it before they find their own.

This series isn’t about being a guru.
It’s about being honest.
It’s about being present.
It’s about being willing to think out loud so others can think out loud too.

I’m just another person on the journey — one who learned, in front of 200 strangers, that sometimes the most important thing you can do is simply speak.

Addendum: What Happened in the Years After

As an aside, in the years since that seminar, I’ve had several occasions where I was asked to speak to audiences that size and even larger. And here’s the surprising part: I never again experienced that same debilitating fear.

Not because I suddenly became confident. Not because I became a polished speaker. Not because the rooms were any smaller.

But because I finally understood something simple and human: I’m speaking to people just like me.

People who feel fear. People who hesitate. People who wonder if their voice matters. People who are still finding their courage.

Once I understood that, the size of the audience stopped mattering. The fear dissolved. The room became just a room full of people — not a test, not a threat, not a judgment.

That moment on stage didn’t just help me find my voice. It helped me keep it.