The One Thing I Can Do as a Speaker in a Virtual World

In pre-pandemic times when I led a workshop, I shook hands with every single person coming into the room.

It was a way for us to start piecing together our delicate little bridge, building trust even before I started speaking. Plus, I like meeting new people and I always want to know who — specifically — is in the room.

Coronavirus has stripped that all away.

Now, I stand behind my laptop, staring at a small green light that means my camera is working. My hand will not fit through that 4-millimetre opening. I try to look welcoming but I generally can’t see anyone.

I am giving the only thing I have left: the gift of my presence.

I am fully present, waiting to meet everyone who has shown up to breathe the same virtual air for an hour.

This, I believe, is the one thing everyone wants. Whether you’re attending a presentation in person or online, you want your speaker to be present with you.

You don’t want a robot reciting lines that they memorized. You don’t want someone — no matter how luminous — who could be anywhere with anyone.

If you’re going to learn something, you want to know that the speaker is present with you, specifically.

You want to know that the speaker has prepared with all of your questions and reservations in mind. You want to know that the speaker is an expert who can adapt her presentation to what you need.

So I show up.

I drag lamps across my apartment and set them up beside my face so that you can see my eyes.

I stand close enough to the camera so that you can imagine we’re sitting across from each other, not continents apart.

I pull up a music stand with notes that I can see without looking down. I attach an old hair clip to it so that they don’t blow away in the breeze from my open window.

I don’t hide behind slides because I know that you would actually prefer to see my face. My hair might be coming out of place because I’m gesturing so passionately, but I know you need to see me to start believing me.

Every few minutes, I stop to listen to your questions, even if they’re filtered through a moderator in another city.

I look at that little green light and I give you everything I have in this specific moment.

And — here’s what I hope — you see me showing up, and it kindles something in you. Something that makes you want to learn and put away your phone. Something that makes you start to build that flimsy bridge through the air toward me.

And you show up.