Ten minutes on stage – ten days unsettled
My manager—who is also neurodivergent—and I were recently talking about presentations, and how different they feel depending on which side of them you’re on. If you’re watching, all you see is a ten-minute talk: polished, confident, well-structured. You don’t see the stress that went into us making it look that way.
What you don’t see are the days of anxiety leading up to it, where I rehearse every possible variation in my head. Where I play out all the ways it could go wrong. Will I stumble on my words? Will I forget something important? Will someone ask a question I don’t know how to answer? Who will be in the room? Will they think I look awkward? Will they think I should dress smarter?
The preparation isn’t just about the content—it’s about control. The only way I can convince myself I won’t fall apart is by scripting every possible scenario. And even then, the nerves are still there, simmering under the surface, making my heart race any time I think about it.
Then comes the actual presentation. And on the outside, I look fine. That’s the trick. That’s the illusion.
On my side of the screen, my hands are shaking and sweating. My face feels stiff, because I’m trying so hard to hold a neutral, “engaged but not weird” expression. Every second, I am micromanaging myself—don’t fidget too much, don’t say ‘um’ too often, make eye contact but not too much. My words are coming out, and I know they’re the right ones, but I can’t fully process them because my brain is too busy making sure I don’t accidentally do something strange with my hands or my face.
When it’s over, there’s a wave of relief. But it’s not really over.
My brain is drained from the sheer amount of effort it took to hold everything together. I can’t focus on anything. I feel heavy, exhausted, unable to do anything that requires even a shred of cognitive energy. That tension I’ve been holding for days has to go somewhere, and usually, that means a full system shutdown.
And even after that, my brain isn’t done with it. For days afterward, I replay it in my head. Not the whole thing—just little fragments. Did I say that one sentence in a weird way? Did I answer that question too bluntly? Did anyone notice my hands shaking when I took a sip of water? Even if nothing actually went wrong, I will still convince myself that there was something, somewhere, that I should be cringing about.
But here’s where it gets complicated. Because as much as I hate what it takes out of me, part of me still wants to be that person—the one that everyone sees. The one who looks polished and in control and smart and articulate. I want to be the person who gets up and does these things effortlessly, without the stress and the aftermath.
And the frustrating thing is, I used to be able to do it more easily—or at least, I thought I could. For years, I pushed through the anxiety, ignored the toll it took on me, and convinced myself this was just what I had to do. It wasn’t until I received my autism diagnosis that I realised how much of myself I had been sacrificing to maintain that illusion. Since then, I’ve worked hard to build a way of working that doesn’t constantly push me past my limits. But moments like this bring up the conflict again.
Because I can still do it. I can still put on the performance. But at what cost?
I don’t agree to do every presentation I’m asked to do. If it’s something I think will be rewarding, I’ll prepare myself and accept the impact it will have on me. But I also let myself say no when I know it’s not worth it. That’s something I never used to do.
The illusion of confidence is a powerful thing. It lets people believe I’m good at this, that it’s easy for me. And in a way, that’s a success—I want my message to come across clearly. I don’t want my nerves to distract from the point I’m making. But I also think it’s important to talk about what’s behind the illusion.
Because for some of us, a ten-minute presentation isn’t just ten minutes. It’s ten days of stress, exhaustion, and recovery. And that’s something worth recognising too.
May 2025
