Embrace Your Edge: The Power of Nerves

You know that feeling, don't you?

The one that shows up when something really matters to you. Maybe it's before a big presentation, a job interview, a first date, or that conversation you've been putting off. Your heart starts racing, your palms get a little sweaty, and there's this electric energy coursing through you.

I see you nodding.

Good. Because what I'm about to tell you might change how you think about those butterflies forever.

That nervousness? It's not your weakness. It's your edge.

For me, it happens every time I'm about to speak in front of people. Doesn't matter if it's my hundredth presentation or my thousandth. I still feel it.

The same butterflies that showed up the very first time I stood in front of a room full of people.

Think about Stephen Curry at the free-throw line in the final seconds of a championship game. His heart is pounding, his breath is shallow, every eye in the arena is on him. But here's the thing, he's been shooting free throws since he was a kid. He could make them blindfolded. So why the nerves?

Because he cares. Because it matters. Because excellence demands respect, even from those who've achieved it countless times before.

The same thing happens to Tom Brady in the fourth quarter, two minutes left, down by three. The pressure is immense. The stakes couldn't be higher. But that pressure? It's not the enemy of greatness, it's the fuel.

Your nerves work the same way, whether you're walking into a boardroom, asking someone out, starting your own business, or having that difficult conversation with your teenager. They're not a bug in your system; they're a feature.

They show up because what you're about to do matters. Because you respect the moment enough to want to give it your best. Because you understand the weight of what's at stake.

I've been speaking for years now, boardrooms, to briefing 3-star generals, conferences, stages big and small. And you know what? I still get nervous.

Every. Single. Time.

I used to think this meant I wasn't cut out for it, that eventually the nerves would disappear and I'd feel "natural" up there. But I've learned something different.

Those nerves aren't going anywhere because they're not supposed to. They're my body's way of saying, "Pay attention. This matters. Show up fully."

Maybe you feel it when you're about to have a performance review. Or when you're walking into a networking event where you don't know anyone. Or when you're finally ready to share that creative project you've been working on. The situation changes, but that electric feeling? It's the same.

The real growth happens not in eliminating the nerves, but in developing awareness around them. When I feel that familiar flutter in my chest before stepping on stage, I don't fight it anymore. Instead, I notice it. I welcome it. I say, "Hello, old friend. I see you're here because you care about this as much as I do."

Marcus Aurelius wrote, "The mind that pursues the good, whether it succeeds or not, is honored by the very attempt." Your nerves are proof that you're pursuing something good, connection, growth, impact, love, truth, whatever matters most in that moment.

So what do I do with this awareness? I've developed a few practices that help me channel that nervous energy instead of being overwhelmed by it. And here's the beautiful thing. They work whether I'm about to give a keynote or have a difficult conversation with my spouse.

First, I meditate.

Not for hours, just five or ten minutes. I sit quietly and breathe, acknowledging the energy without trying to change it. I remind myself that this feeling is normal, it's temporary, and it's actually helping me be more alert and present.

I read something meaningful, often a passage from a book that grounds me or a quote that reminds me of what really matters. Sometimes it's Seneca reminding me that "every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." Sometimes it's just a paragraph from a novel that brings me back to the beauty of language itself.

I practice. Always. Even if I've given this talk before, even if I know the material inside and out, I rehearse. Not because I don't trust myself, but because preparation is a form of respect. For the audience, for the message, for the moment. This applies to everything: I practice difficult conversations in my head, I research before job interviews, I think through what I want to say before important phone calls.

Lastly, I remind myself of where I really am.

I'm spinning on a rock through space at 67,000 miles per hour, orbiting a star that's one of billions in a galaxy that's one of trillions in an incomprehensibly vast universe. In cosmic terms, this presentation, this conversation, this moment, this nervousness. It's all beautifully, magnificently insignificant.

That perspec