I am an incredibly stubborn person.  Doesn’t matter how important the matter actually is; I pick my side and stay there.  After all, who wants to change their opinion and admit that they’re wrong?

Such is the case with a certain activity in my life.  A few years ago, speech and debate was the bane of my existence.  It meant either a) lots of babysitting during club meetings and tournaments, or b) attending said club meetings and tournaments and suffering acutely all the way through.  Participating was not an option, so I spent my time watching kids on the playground and reading books.  It was misery.

Last year, with a good deal of shoving, I suddenly found myself immersed in everything I’d assured myself I hated.  I couldn’t speak in public.  I couldn’t debate.  And I most certainly wouldn’t do this of my own choosing.  And for while, most of it was true.  But somewhere along the line, things began to change.


It wasn’t the speech and debate that changed my mind.  There was no sudden enlightenment, no realization that I loved speaking to a panel of judges.  Instead, there was the gradual understanding that I liked these people—I loved these people.

Attending a four-day tournament with a group of people is bound to bring you closer.  Between nerves, a grueling schedule, and results that are both disappointing and exciting, you just don’t leave the same way you came.  It’s hard.  But it becomes something incredible.

For me, tournament season is over.  Tomorrow night, my club will have its final meeting until next year.  And for the first time, that makes me sad.  It’s not that all of it was enjoyable—it wasn’t.  But I would do it all again in a heartbeat.  I’ve learned that it isn’t such a big deal to open your mouth and speak, and the friends along the way are worth everything else.

I was wrong…but I never could have imagined a more pleasant surprise.

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