My heart pounded into my ears, beating so fast I thought the arteries would burst. My knees trembled as I read through the speech for the thousandth time–I couldn’t mess this up. Nervously, frantically, I skimmed through the speech once again. The words seemed burned into eyelids–for I knew them by heart.

Cold sweat dripped from my forehead, trickling down like a stream of nervous feeling. Applauds rang through the building. But I was too busy reading and rereading. Always rereading.

Making sure that everything was perfect–perfectionism and OCD at it’s worst.

Making sure not a period out of place or a misspelled word. Simply because I was in no mood to trip on my words and mess it all up. This was my moment of glory. My moment. The president motioned for me to go. And go I did.

Stepping out in front of the stage.

Heart racing as though I had just run a marathon. Legs trembling. Hands shaking and threatening to drop the papers.

Arteries pounding blood. Faster, harder, louder.

Stage fright filled my body all the way through my bones. Putting the paper on the stand. I spoke.

But as I spoke. The crowd was gone. The voices were quite. I was all alone.

Reading my speech. And pushing past the

stage fright.