Stumbling Block

When I came into FA 12 years ago, I was petrified of being at the front of the room. I was not comfortable being a public speaker, not just because of my weight, but because I had been labeled a remedial reader since first grade. Every time we read out loud from our textbooks in class, I was overcome by a wave of fear. The more nervous I got, the worse I seemed to do. It was a cruel irony that I could read silently but my tongue would grow thick and my mind would process slowly when asked to read out loud.

When FA encouraged those of us without 90 days of abstinence to come to the front of the room to read, I was not so inclined. My meeting was small, and I couldn’t hide from the task. Initially, I only volunteered to read the tools, except for the tool of anonymity because pronouncing that word intimidated me. With time, I was willing to read other portions but shied away from the Twelve Traditions because the part of Tradition Six that reads “lest problems of money, property, and prestige divert us from our primary purpose” seemed like a cruel tongue twister.

In my first AWOL, I struggled to be truly present because I was counting paragraphs in our readings, trying to determine which one I would be called on to read. I would often practice reading my paragraph instead of listening to those reading before me. It would really throw me off if I counted wrong or if someone had to skip their turn, causing me to read some unrehearsed portion of the book.

With a little more time, I was reading the entire FA meeting format and much of the AWOL material out loud. I became more comfortable at the front of the room, not so much because of the weight loss, but because I felt safe among my fellows and in that room. As I got closer to being able to share in a meeting and, heaven forbid, give my qualification, my sponsor assured me it would be fine. No one knew my story better than me. I am an expert on everything I would say because only I knew what it was like for me before FA, my journey, and what it was like for me now.

I carried those words of wisdom to my job. I had always been nervous about delivering the results of my work. I was not only afraid of being disliked when I had to report less than favorable results, but I also feared being stared at and judged for my appearance and my speech. Again, the more nervous I’d get, the worse I seemed to do. Once I was in FA for a while, I realized no one knew my work the way I did. I was the most qualified person to share the results of my work and that brought me comfort.

Now, one of the main parts of my job is to go to conferences and present on technical topics related to my industry. Being in a size 6 instead of a size 36 makes standing in front of the crowd easier. Now I know it’s okay if I stumble over words and have to correct myself. I learned those were moments of humility, not humiliation. I’m imperfect; so be it. I also know my industry and my job. I cannot say I’m the top expert by any means, but I can hold my own.

This month, I found myself preparing for a presentation. There had been a two-year hiatus from giving presentations due to COVID. It was a two-part training session with someone else presenting part two. I did not design her portion of the presentation, and although I understand the topic, I do not have the same level of knowledge in that area. So when she had to bail the week before, I was not overly excited about covering both sections. I decided to record a practice run-through of her portion so I could listen to it while walking and driving.

A few days later, after listening to it once or twice, I started to notice a consistent click-clack, click-clack sound. It took me a minute to realize I must have absentmindedly been clicking my pen while recording the run-through. I then flashed back to 20 plus years ago when I was in college and in my disease of food addiction.

While studying for a refresher course to prepare me for a rigorous certification exam, I tape recorded some lessons that were available at the university library. As I listened to the tapes, I could hear a pop-fizz and rustle-rustle-rustle noises in the background. I remembered all my go-to foods, so I could vividly imagine the items associated with each and every noise. I was filled with shame and disgust. I couldn’t focus on the content of the tapes because the mental image of me in my basement apartment continuously binge eating next to my recorder was paralyzing. Food had to accompany every activity back then. I needed the caffeine to stay awake, the constant movement in order to stay seated (which seems like an oxymoron), and the soothing and numbing of food to overcome the fear that I was too dumb to graduate from college, let alone pass this massive exam.

As I continued to listen to my current recording of my work presentation, I noticed there was not a single pop-fizz, crunch, or slurp. The difference helped me to feel compassion for that very lost young woman who had been trying to better herself despite suffering from the physical and mental disease of food addiction.

As my own worst critic, I can assure you the presentation did not go “perfectly.” I made some slips and errors; however, I scored a “satisfactory” rating on all my surveys. I showed up in a suit I hadn’t worn in three years, and it never even dawned on me to try it on before I packed. I simply slipped right into it the morning of the presentation without a care. I ate my abstinent meals and did all my morning tools as if it was just another day.

The experience was a great walk down memory lane of what I used to be like when it came to reading and public speaking, how I became more comfortable in my skin and my abilities, and what it is like for me today to be fully present in front of people.