The never-ending streak of events, conferences, panels, and various public appearances continues, and it threw me off my carefully constructed daily routine, as it does every year.
In the past, I would usually get mad when this happened, but I’ve long come to terms with the fact that life is seasonal, and so I know that I will eventually get back into it—I just need to be patient and enjoy the ride.
Despite all the madness, Cloe and I managed to sneak to Bologna to celebrate our tenth anniversary at a Twenty-One Pilots concert. I’m not a huge fan—though I find Car Radio incredibly moving—but she is, and I was happy to let her try and convert me. If nothing else, it was a great performance, and there’s always something a little magical in sharing the same moment with thousands of other people, breaking out of the soloculture bubble for a second.
Also, ten years together is no joke.
When Cloe and I got married, the people in our lives were obviously happy for us, but also a little puzzled because they couldn’t see the point. Once you’ve been with someone for a decade, getting married is a bureaucratic nuisance more than anything else.
As I tried to formulate a thoughtful response—attempting to post-rationalize something I just knew to be right—I kept coming back to a concept that has served me well over the years: the conviction that freedom is only valuable when forgone. It is precisely because we didn’t need to get married that our getting married was so special. Indefinite optionality is a sign of weakness, not of independence.
I may end up publishing the speech over the next few weeks—after translating it and purging it of all the incomprehensible inside jokes.
During a lovely work dinner in Milan a few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend about our respective relationships with public speaking. He told me he had been recently asked to lecture at a local university–only to freeze completely in front of the class. He ended up recovering quite well, and the students loved the content (he is one of the smartest people I know, after all), but he couldn’t shake off the shame of standing in silence in front of an entire class.
“I don’t know how you do it—you don’t seem bothered by public speaking at all!” he said, off-handedly.
That comment struck me.
First of all, because I am, in fact, very much bothered. I don’t have many convictions in life, but here’s one: anyone who is not at least a little nervous before speaking in public is either an idiot or a psychopath. I am afraid of forgetting, or saying the wrong thing, or making some other unforgivable faux pas.
Secondly, because my friend was right: if my overall introversion is any indication, I should be much more averse to public speaking than I am—and yet I’m not. In fact, I almost cherish those moments: sure, I hate the preparation, and the traveling, and the stomach butterflies, and… Come to think of it, I hate pretty much everything about public speaking. And yet, I always come out on the other side happier than I was.
As we got deeper into the conversation, I realized why: to me, public speaking is not a performance; it’s just one more tool for thought. When I speak in public, I don’t care so much about making a good impression as I do about using the experience to enrich my understanding of the world.
Ironically, this often means putting myself in positions where I’m primed not to make a good impression, talking in foreign environments, or about subjects I’m not fully comfortable with. It’s a kind of loving torture I impose on myself.
Also, taking yourself seriously impedes learning.