Last night, a couple hundred of us held our collective breath while staring at someone in a dimly lit room. The silence made me anxious, and it only got worse the longer it dragged on.
On stage, this person seemed to be holding their breath, too.
Isobel and I were at a live storytelling event called The Moth. In our seats, she'd reached for my hand but froze; I hadn't realized I was sitting on mine. Shifting slightly, I did my best to be as quiet as possible. I needed to reposition my arm, but was distracted by what was happening on stage.
People like to say you can hear a pin drop in moments like this, but all I noticed was that not a single person coughed or cleared their throat. It's winter in Vermont... that's unheard of. There was no whispering, either. Nothing.
While telling a story involving multiple ectopic pregnancies and a solo backpacking trip, the storyteller's voice had caught in her throat. From my seat, I felt a pang in my stomach—I'd wanted to help somehow, but knew there was absolutely nothing to do but keep watching. On stage—and still in the spotlight—the woman stood firm but not rigid. Tall, but not guarded. She did not apologize, fidget, or fumble. Staring out across the crowd, she held her space confidently.
Then, noticing I wasn't really holding my breath anymore, I felt myself smile. If anything, I was trying to somehow, telepathically, let her know that we were all rooting for her. Every single one of us.
Only a pro would know to take their time through silence like this, and only someone with experience speaking in front of a crowd would have enough practice to pull it off. Especially when fighting to recover your voice in an emotionally charged part of a story like this one. I felt myself shaking my head in slight disbelief at her exceptional skill level. What I was keying into, I realized, was how poised she seemed.
When she was ready, she broke her own silence with a soft grin on her face.
Her expression was warm and welcoming again, just as it had been at the start. But now it also had more... resolve. She began speaking right where she'd left off without any fanfare. The sound of the audience returned, too. Suddenly I could hear exhales and gasps again. Small "hmms" and head nods reverberated through the hall once more. When she finished her story by slyly landing the punchline, thunderous applause filled the space.
It happened again later, too, when they announced that she'd won the whole StorySLAM.
In 2026, I hope you find resilience and not need it. But if you do, may we all hope to be as poised as the woman who held the spotlight on New Year's Eve—without apology, fidgets, or fumbles.
onward.
Help BUDS grow by passing this along to someone who’d appreciate it. Oh, and if something clicked for you while reading, hit reply and tell me what it was.