It was a Friday morning in April.
I ambled down the Gaslight district, yoga mat under my arm. I had found a class locally.
Priming both my mind and body are important pre cursors to any talk I give. For the first time in years, South Asian women hotel owners numbered in critical mass. The host organization had flown me in for their annual convention.
I showered, dressed, and walked over to the Convention Center. It sat like a big white empress on the Marina. At registration, the African American woman gushed that she wanted to see my talk. She fussed as she wasn’t sure if she could get away from the desk.
“You’re speaking in the Sails Pavilion,” she said, handing me my lanyard.
Sales? or Sails? I mulled the spelling as I rode the escalator up. Indian men and women huddled in small groups throughout the hallways, chattering away amicably.
Sails Pavilion…. I chewed my lip. Is there a sign? My eyes darted here and there.
An attendant pointed me to the adjacent building. The San Diego sunshine managed to flood every corner of the Convention Center.
Especially this room. Holy sh#$. I thought, forgetting about the spelling of ‘Sails.’ This is some Tony Robbins sh$%. Hundreds of tables lined up. Massive stage. I couldn’t be in the right place. I doubled back. Maybe the attendant was mistaken? I am speaking at a women’s luncheon. I gripped my papers.
The loud speaker bellowed. “Mic check for Joya Dass. Our keynote speaker today!”
This room was for me.
#Impostersyndrome affects us all. I’ve spoken on TV for 20 years. I spoken in front of my members every month. I still wager that a live room is far tougher to engage.
That sunny April afternoon in San Diego, I gave a talk to 1600 women. The audience listened.
I had manifested this. All of it. It had been sitting on my vision board for some time. I had forgotten about it. We, as women, are so much more powerful than we give ourselves credit for.
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