Freshman year. DECA Districts. Humongous Convention Center.
The morning started with me fixing my tie in the bathroom mirror, trying to look older than I felt. The suit was stiff, a little too big in the shoulders, but it made me feel like I belonged. Clean, sharp, important. I remember walking into that massive hall, the kind of room with high ceilings and fluorescent lights that seem just big enough to make you feel small. There were hundreds of kids. Every single one of them is in a suit. Same posture. Same haircut. Same fake confidence. It hit me instantly: I’m not special. I’m just one more kid in a borrowed blazer.
Up until that point, I hadn’t felt nervous. But right then, this wave of doubt washed over me. Did I prepare enough? Did I even understand what I was supposed to be pitching? My name got called. I walked into that judge’s room and tried to fake calm. But my voice cracked halfway through. I fumbled a transition. I couldn’t even remember the closing I’d rehearsed. I left the room knowing I blew it. Final score: 59 out of 100. I didn’t qualify for the next level. This was devastating. I felt… hollow. Like all the energy I built up that morning went nowhere.
What stuck with me wasn’t the number. It was how lost I felt in that room. I realized I didn’t know how to speak with purpose or confidence or direction. I didn’t just fail the event. I walked away knowing I had no real idea how to hold someone’s attention or carry myself like I believed what I was saying. And that realization stung more than the score.
But I didn’t quit.
At the same time, I joined the Debate Club. And that’s where I had to completely rethink how I communicate. In the beginning, I focused on performance, speaking fast, sounding polished. But I kept losing rounds. Judges would say I had presence but not depth. That hit hard. So I changed my approach. I realized that knowing what you’re talking about matters more than just sounding like you do. Debate taught me that style is hollow without substance. Once I focused on the content behind the argument, everything started to click. My cases were stronger. My rebuttals had focus. I wasn’t just learning how to argue. I was learning how to think.
I went back to DECA the next year. Quietly. No expectations. I started watching how upperclassmen handled themselves. How they talked through ideas without panic. How they adjusted mid-pitch if they got thrown off. I practiced with friends after school. I started rehearsing presentations, not just once, but five or ten times, until I could walk into a room and mean what I was saying instead of just repeating it.
After some introspection, I realized the importance of these types of clubs for high school students like myself. Each one pushes you in a different way. Competitions give structure. Debates give strategy. Toastmasters gives presence.
Toastmasters isn’t a competition like DECA or a head-to-head like Debate. It’s a weekly micro-stage where you stand up, speak, get immediate feedback, and do it again next week. No points, no trophies, just iteration and improvement. That repetitive, supportive environment turns shaky delivery into muscle memory and forces you to pay attention to pacing, vocal variety, and the small details that make an audience lean in. Those supportive, stress-free conditions truly set Toastmasters apart from other public-speaking clubs that I have participated in.
Together, these rooms do more than just improve your speaking; they shape how you carry yourself, how you think, and how you respond when things don’t go your way. But most importantly, it takes away that stage fear, and those sweaty palms I once had turned into confident hand gestures.
Confidence isn’t a trait you’re born with; it’s built through a thousand moments where you could quit but don’t. Mine started with a shaky DECA pitch, grew through late-night debate prep, and keeps expanding every time I practice. As countless Toastmasters alumni, ranging from high schoolers like my peers, all the way to corporate workers, would tell you, the stage never stops teaching those who are willing to listen.
Now there I was. Junior year, at an international-level business competition. The convention center’s jumbo screens repeat the same sponsor reels, the buzz of over 25,000 members, advisors, and business professionals, bounce off crystal chandeliers. I rock the same navy blue suit I once borrowed, now tailored to fit, and step toward my event room. Fluorescent lights still hum overhead, judges still shuffle score sheets, but this time my pulse stays steady.
Inside, I project myself, pivot on follow-up questions, and lock eyes with the judges instead of the floor. My closing line lands, the bell dings, and I walk out hearing only my calm breathing over the crowd noise. I left the room knowing I had blown the judges away with my presentation. My scores confirm it: I got a perfect score, placing me in the 97th percentile in the world.
Same corridors, same tailored suit, but the person walking them has changed. The confidence I was radiating isn’t for show anymore; it’s woven from repetition, reflection, and finally learning to trust my own voice.
Immediately after I received my perfect score, I realized that it didn’t just come from practicing my presentation. It grew out of Toastmasters’ support and blunt critiques that burned away my filler words and tightened every pause.
If you’re a high-schooler or someone who cares for one, remember: practice builds confidence over time. Participating in Toastmasters, or any club that makes you stand up and speak, will make those sweaty-palm moments turn into the strongest handshakes you’ll ever give.
– Karan Karthik, rising senior at Rick Reedy High School
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