It is possible to live a life in the present moment completely without fear. Without fear, we are able to see more clearly our connections to others. Without fear, we have more room for understanding and compassion. Without fear, we are truly free.
Thich Nhat Hahn
100 faces staring blankly at me. Thinking I am an idiot.
Confirming my worst fears - I am a failure.
That's what I was thinking as I put the finishing touches to a talk I'd be giving at the QED Annual CEO conference in Washington DC.
I hadn't done any public speaking for over six years - not since standing as best man at my mate's wedding.
Best man speeches are different. The audience wants you to succeed, expects you to make them laugh. Once you find that rhythm, the fear dissolves.
My fear started the night before. After taking my nephew out to dinner - he'd just moved to DC for his first job out of college - I made the pre-event drinks reception. Like so many VC-networking events I had been to before, the casual surface vibe in the roped-off area of a DC bar was once again a rich breeding ground for my old friend - impostor syndrome.
As I circulated the bar, often introduced as one of tomorrow's speakers, the conversations compounded my dread.
One CEO preparing for an IPO.
Another just hit $100M ARR.
A third closing a $100M round.
The pattern felt obvious: everyone here was successful, brave, unburdened by failure. What was I thinking, agreeing to give a talk about fear, failure, and regret?
That night, I barely slept - staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning through the early hours, catastrophising about the talk, imagining the flop, the disappointment from the partners who'd backed me.
As dawn broke over the capital, I gave up on sleep and went for a run. The darkness tricked me into thinking it was cold—I threw on a tracksuit top, hit the DC streets, and within minutes realised my mistake. Tracksuit tied around my waist, I kept moving.
No music. No set route. Just a vague plan to hit the monuments and clear my head—or at least quiet the terror about what was coming.
I stopped at each landmark. Grabbed pictures, took in the grandeur, acknowledged how fortunate I was to be here, like this. Running around an empty Washington before doing something new and hard for myself.
The run evolved into much more than I thought it would do.
As I passed the Washington Monument, the sun fully breaking now, I thought about all the CEOs I'd meet that day. Not their achievements or their opinions of me, but what they might be carrying that I couldn't see. The fear they weren't naming. The failures they weren't sharing.
Maybe that's what they needed. Not another polished success story, but permission to name the hard stuff.
And what mattered: I was here. I was doing something that scared me. I'd done the work, practised the talk, owned my story. They'd asked me to bring vulnerability, to talk about failure, to challenge the group.
Whether it landed? That wasn't in my control.
As I walked the last blocks back to the hotel, I felt something close to contentment.
I showered. Chose the darker of the two t-shirts I'd packed - because I couldn't decide on which one before I left New York. I set up a makeshift stage in my room and ran through the talk one final time - clock running, laptop up, cue cards in hand.
It went as planned. The timing worked. The energy felt right. I remembered the arc, hit the key points.
The conference room buzzed with energy - everyone already bonded from dinner and breakfast. As the founder delivered his opening keynote (running half an hour over, as warned), his command of the room - the humour, the gravitas, the perfect timing - rekindled my fears.
My palms started sweating. I tried to focus on my breathing. Everything is going to be ok.
A long-time friend and partner at the firm introduced me. He spoke warmly about our friendship, about the impact I'd had on his life, a flash of vulnerability and connection I hadn't expected. It felt like the perfect prelude.
I walked on stage, delivered my dramatic in-character opening, then broke character to begin.
Big learning: modern conference rooms have screens below the stage displaying your slides and digital prompts. As I stood there clutching my physical index cards, I pointed this out to the room. Everyone laughed and the ice broke - it was just like a best man speech (well almost!)
Time collapsed. Before I knew it, I was at the 25-minute mark, wrapping the keynote portion.
I'd done it. It had gone by in a flash.
But now came what I'd thought would be the hardest part: the interactive prompts with the whole room. I asked them to sit with each question, notice how it felt in their bodies, consider what they'd feel if they let those feelings go.
The warmth I felt watching people write in their notebooks told me this wouldn't be a total disaster.
But asking them to share with each other? Heart-in-mouth moment. What if nobody engaged?
Within seconds, the room erupted. People turned to neighbours - new friends, complete strangers - and started talking. I'd budgeted three minutes. I let it run for ten, struggling even then to get their attention back.
So worried was I that nobody would actually be willing to share with the room as a whole I'd arranged for the founder and his Chief of Staff to be plants—ready to share if the room stayed silent.
I needn't have worried. When I asked who'd be willing to share, a dozen hands shot up and another 10-12 minute discussion ensued.
Once again I was shocked by people's willingness to be vulnerable, to share and the comfort people took from other people's willingness to be open.
The session ended with applause, hugs from the founder and my friend.
I felt relief mixed with something bigger - accomplishment, maybe, or just surprise.
Half a dozen people lingered, waiting to talk one-on-one. Every conversation started with thanks but quickly went deeper - into the feelings and fears I'd challenged them to name.
At lunch, people sought me out, wanted to sit at my table. I hadn't expected this - the reception, yes, but more than that, people's hunger to connect, to share their own vulnerabilities.
I reluctantly left after lunch to catch my afternoon flight, despite the conference running another day and a half, despite the dinner invitation that evening.
On the flight back, I basked in the glow of it - but also questioned my decision to leave. Wasn't this supposed to be about building relationships, expanding my network, maybe finding new coaching clients?
As my taxi pulled up to our apartment, I got a text: my daughter had hurt her ankle at football (soccer!) practice. She wasn't sure she could walk or scoot home.
I dropped my bag, grabbed the car keys, drove to the field.
Watching her hobble to the car, I understood. All of it - the fear, the failures, the regrets, the so-called victory of speaking to a room of accomplished CEOs - it all mattered less than this. Being there. Being present. Picking up your daughter when she can't walk home from practice.
That's what owning the now actually looks like.
