I Booked My First Keynote (And Almost Talked Myself Out of It)

I have news that makes my heart race in the best—and most terrifying—way: I'm keynoting the North Dakota Child Care Professionals Inc. (NDCCPI) Conference this May.

My first keynote.

Let that sink in for a moment, because it took me about three days to let it sink in for me.

The ADHD Brain's Greatest Hits

When I got the invitation, my brain did what my ADHD brain does best—it played every possible scenario simultaneously:

"This is incredible! You're going to inspire people!"

"Wait, what if you forget everything mid-speech?"

"You have so much to share about early literacy!"

"But what if they realize you're a fraud and you don't actually know anything?"

"This could change everything for your career!"

"Or you could trip walking onto the stage. In front of everyone. Forever."

All of this happened in approximately 90 seconds. Welcome to my brain.

The Imposter Whispers

Here's what nobody tells you about achieving something you've dreamed about: the imposter syndrome doesn't go away when you finally get there. If anything, it gets LOUDER.

I've spent years working in early childhood education. I've helped transform literacy programs, coached teachers, supported families, and seen firsthand the power of intentional early learning. I know my stuff.

And yet.

When I saw "keynote speaker" next to my name, my first thought wasn't "I earned this." It was "How long until they figure out they made a mistake?"

That's the thing about ADHD and imposter syndrome—they're best friends who love to show up uninvited to every important moment. They whisper that you're not organized enough, not focused enough, not "together" enough to be standing on that stage.

But Here's What I've Learned About Resilience

Resilience isn't about not feeling the fear. It's about feeling ALL of it and doing it anyway.

It's about recognizing that the same ADHD brain that spirals into worst-case scenarios is also the one that:

• Makes unexpected connections others miss

• Brings contagious energy and passion to important work

• Hyper focuses on things that matter (hello, 3am research deep-dives)

• Thinks outside every conventional box because it never saw the box in the first place

My ADHD isn't something I succeed in spite of. It's part of how I succeed. The creativity, the empathy, the ability to meet people where they are—these aren't separate from my neurodivergence. They're intertwined with it.

Why This Matters (Beyond My Personal Panic)

I'm keynoting a conference for childcare providers—the people who shape our youngest learners' lives every single day. These are the educators who see potential in every child, who celebrate the loud kids and the quiet kids, the ones who learn by doing and the ones who need to sit still, the neurotypical kids and the neurodivergent ones.

And here's what I want them to know: If you've ever felt like you're not enough, like you're barely holding it together, like everyone else has it more figured out than you do—you're exactly who those kids need.

Because you know what it's like to struggle. To work twice as hard to do what seems to come easily to others. To feel different and wonder if that's okay.

And you can show them that it is. That different is not less. That resilience is built, not born. That impact doesn't require perfection.

The Messy Middle

I'm not going to stand on that stage in May pretending I have it all figured out. I'm going to show up as someone who:

• Still uses seventeen different reminder systems (and sometimes still forgets things)

• Has to actively work against executive dysfunction every single day

• Knows what it's like to feel overwhelmed and underprepared

• Understands that growth isn't linear and neither is success

And I'm going to talk about early literacy—about the power of reading with intention, about creating language-rich environments, about seeing every child's potential—from that place of authenticity.

Because the early childhood educators in that room? They don't need a perfect speaker. They need a real one.

What Pushing Through Looks Like

So yes, I said yes to the keynote. Even though my brain immediately started catastrophizing. Even though I wondered if I was qualified. Even though the imposter syndrome showed up with snacks and planned to stay awhile.

I said yes because:

• The work matters more than my fear

• Someone out there needs to hear what I have to say

• Every person who's ever inspired me probably felt this way too

• My ADHD brain, for all its challenges, has also given me gifts worth sharing

• Impact requires showing up, even when—especially when—it's scary

To Anyone Else in the Messy Middle

If you're standing at the edge of something that terrifies and excites you in equal measure, here's what I want you to know:

Do it scared.

The fear doesn't mean you're not ready. It means you're on the edge of growth. It means this thing matters to you. It means you're about to do something that stretches you.

Your brain might spiral. Your imposter syndrome might scream. Your ADHD might make the preparation feel impossible some days.

Do it anyway.

Because the world doesn't need more people who have it all together. The world needs people who show up authentically, who work through the hard stuff, who let their struggles inform their strengths.

See You in May

So here I am, already preparing (and by preparing, I mean hyper focusing at random times and then forgetting what I was doing, in true ADHD fashion). I'm excited. I'm terrified. I'm honored. I'm questioning everything.

And I'm doing it anyway.

If you're attending the NDCCPI Conference in May, come say hi. Let's talk about early literacy, about resilience, about doing hard things with imperfect brains. Let's celebrate the beautiful mess of being human while doing important work.

And if you're reading this and thinking "I could never do something like that"—I hope my story reminds you that you absolutely can.

You just have to do it scared.

See you on that stage. I'll be the one taking deep breaths and reminding myself that I belong there.

Because I do. And so do you.