She turned an ordinary request into something extraordinary. And delicious.

Kelly makes toffee. Melt-in-your-mouth, make-you-dream-of-heaven toffee. Various flavors, sizes. Traditional English. Cookies and Cream. Chai Tea Latte. Espresso Bean. Flavors that scandalize my (God help me) toffee-loving taste buds. I heard about her business from her daughter and soon went to her website for more information.

It is impossible to overstate my love of this golden confection. Sure, I wanted a stash for myself. But I also thought it’d make a nice gift for event hosts and clients. Honest. So I shot her a quick email and asked for a price list and shipping options.

She replied back within a day. Prompt. Courteous. A great first impression. More than enough. But it turned out to be only the beginning.

Within a few days, I received a large delivery of individual bags of toffee samples. Five of her most popular flavors, in various sizes, and packaged in rich decorative boxes with gorgeous, cascading ribbons. In all, about 3 lbs. of toffee perfection.

Pinch me. I’m a pig in front of my trough.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been hoarding my secret stash and sneaking clandestine toffee treats. It’s my responsibility to research. I must, must, must know if it meets my standards before shipping gifts to clients and friends. Yes?

Um, yes. I can attest the toffee is quite satisfactory. Now, where did I put those elastic pants?

Last week I read Fred 2.0: New Ideas on How to Keep Delivering Extraordinary Results, by Mark Sanborn. Troy and I had the privilege of sharing dinner with Mark and his wife, Darla, several months ago. Delightful. I hadn’t read any of his books before, but determined I would. Mark says the following:

“The prevailing spirit of the age seems to be ‘Get before you give.’ Without a tangible incentive—money, recognition, or applause—many people just don’t find any reason to do more than necessary.” (pg. 32)

Ouch. Yes, true. But not Kelly. Not even close. She probably hoped to gain my business. But she had no expectation I’d write a post about her craft, no knowledge of the Facebook and Twitter friends who might hear about what she does and how well she does it.

She showered me with the fruits of her talent, not because of something she hoped to gain, but because she loved the giving.

Simply, she delighted to do it. How rare she is! I couldn’t help but wonder: Am I a Kelly? Or …

1. When I give a gift, card or encouraging email, do I expect a thank you? Or hope to gain points on the approval scale?
2. When I do someone a favor, do I hold it like a promissory note I plan to collect on later?
3. When sharing talents or expertise, do I offer the bare minimum to get by?
4. Do I drop compliments because I hope it ingratiates me to the person or warrants similar accolades in return?
5. Do I grow disappointed, even bitter, when my efforts at excellence aren’t acknowledged or reciprocated like I think they should be?

I’ve interacted with enough such people to know how instantly distasteful an offering becomes when so motivated. But I had to admit: I’ve behaved the very same at times.

Ouch. Again.

Few things taste as sweet as an extraordinary, unexpected gift. But nothing ruins the flavor like an angle or expectation behind the offering.

What if we, instead, chose to take Kelly’s approach to the way we serve others? What if we delighted in the giving and blessing and encouraging far more than any possible hope of a benefit in return?

What if the act of giving, itself, was enough?

Like Mark said so well, “Don’t settle for normal. Choose to be extraordinary.”

Normal is negotiating for position, doing only enough to get by, keeping score. Extraordinary is giving and serving extravagantly for the sheer delight of it. Three pounds of beautiful, finger-licking toffee. Just because.

And extraordinary is choosing to share, rather than hoard.

Okay. Got it.

What is one way you could give or serve or love extravagantly today?

“You know what Easter is really about, right?”

I glanced in my rear view mirror at the three heads bobbing in the backseat. We’d just finished a not-so-small grocery run (is there any other kind?). They’d seen the bunnies and baskets displayed in the store, giggled incessantly about Easter eggs and Sunday’s certain candy.

Of course, we’d discussed Easter before, talked about the heart behind the holiday. I wanted to get it right, make sure the story stuck.

Only silence in reply.

“This Sunday is Easter. Do you know why we celebrate it?” I took another look in the mirror.

“Eggs!” The littlest little announced from the backseat, her arms up, triumphant.

“Well yes, we will color some eggs. But no, that’s not really the heart of Easter.”

My boy scrunched up his forehead, reaching for the right answer. “Bunnies!” he declared, certain he was closer to the truth than his sister.

Uh-oh. Breathe.

“No, not quite. I know you’re hoping the Easter Bunny will come, but that isn’t why we celebrate Easter.” Confusion clouded the faces on the bobbing heads.

Fabulous. I’ve failed as a mother.

I wracked my brain for a better approach, a hint I could give that might clue them into the truth.

“Think about Christmas. Who do we celebrate at Christmas?”

“Jesus!” All three shouted in unison.

Whew. “Yes, Jesus. That’s when we celebrate his birthday, the day he was born.” Let’s try this again. “So now, who do we celebrate at Easter?”

“Jesus!” they answered. Because when all else fails, “Jesus” is almost always the right answer.

“Yes, exactly. Jesus. Do you know what’s significant about Jesus on Easter Sunday?”

Silence. Again, wretched silence. Until the oldest, the leader of the lot, braved an answer:

“Um … did Jesus find some eggs?”

So we have a bit of a learning curve in the Cushatt house. We’re working on it. And we’ve certainly talked about it more since our drive in the car. I can’t really blame six-year-olds for their confusion. Everywhere they look—at the store, at school, on television—a preponderance of evidence claims Easter is about everything but Jesus.

It’s easy to miss the cross in all the candy.

For me, too. God help me, for me too.

I was cutting a roast when it happened. The brand new butcher knife I received for Christmas met the fleshy palm of my hand. It was an accident. I moved too fast, rushed through dinner preparations while contemplating my other to-dos. Foolish! I chastised myself the minute it happened. Then I called the kids to get me a napkin or towel, something to stop the bleeding. Upon closer inspection, I could see the wound went deep, but was relatively small. In time, it would heal without a mark.

For the past few days, I’ve carried this cut on my hand. I feel it every time I type on my laptop or reach for a glass of water. Proof of my frantic foolishness, reminding me to slow down and be more careful.

But it took me much of the week to see Easter in it. I’d missed the cross for all the candy.

“I have engraved you on the palms of my hands,” He says (Is. 49:15-16)

Engraved. Fixed. Carved. Impressed.

Not a result of foolishness or haste. Not a haphazard byproduct of an accident or mishap. Not a painful reminder of a mistake or misstep. Instead, an intentional engraving on a fleshy palm because Someone wanted the reminder.

Not because He’d forget; but because we would.

This is why we celebrate Easter. Because He welcomed the deepest of wounds so we wouldn’t have to.

No, Jesus didn’t find eggs. He found you. He found me.

And we are healed.

Just about the time I think I’ve kicked a lifetime of insecurity to kingdom come, it sneaks back up on me.

Drat.

One moment I’m on top of the world; the next moment I’m deep in doubt. Questioning everything from my mothering and writing to how I look in a mirror and clean the house (or, rather, don’t clean the house). It gets old, this wrestling for security. I want the matter of confidence to be settled, over, done. Not just in my head, but in my heart.

Last week, FaithLife Women featured a post I wrote about this constant reaching for reassurance. Two stories of two women, separated by generations but joined in their constant reaching. One grieved, the other gained. In the end, it was all about finding the Right Feet:

“She crawled across the floor on her hands and knees, tears pouring. Oblivious to her desperation, her husband grabbed his car keys and hastily packed bags in a single motion. “Please…don’t leave …” 

[You can read more here.]

Where does insecurity sneak up on you?

It’s official. The Cushatt family has entered the Twilight Zone.

Friday, the littlest of our littles—twins—turned 6. I made cupcakes for the classroom, birthday cake for the family, pizza AND macaroni and cheese for dinner (carbilicious), and wrapped a ridiculous number of gifts. The children ate sugar, the adults drank (imaginary) martinis and the teenagers complained about how they “never had birthday parties like this” when they were growing up.

Whatever.

All in all, a good day. Now we’re safely on the other side of the birthday insanity. Except for one teensy, weensy detail:

As of Friday, we now have children ages 21, 19, 16 and … (wait for it) … 6. 6. 6.

Gasp!

If you didn’t choke on your bagel, something is wrong with you.

When it comes to our kids, we have one of drinking age, two voting, three driving, and three more who make me shake with fear. At least until May when the oldest 6 turns 7. For now, we’re anointing door frames, stenciling Bible verses on the walls, and taking communion at dinner.

Okay, maybe not. But I wouldn’t turn down a prayer or two, if you feel so inclined. We need all we can get.

Ever since the littles joined our family almost two years ago, I’m asked the same question again and again:

“How do you do it?”

Good question. Easy answer.

I don’t. WE do.

It’s takes the entire family (and some outside help) to make this work. And some days it doesn’t work. Not at all. When everything falls apart, we call it day. There’s always tomorrow.

All I know is we couldn’t have done this 10 years ago, even 5. We’re different now than we were then.

We’ve changed the way we view family, the way we do family.

Now we’re the anti-parents, the ones who DON’T stay up all night making Valentine’s boxes and DO sometimes skip homework to play outside. We’re the rebels who refuse the wide, fast river of “give-your-child-everything-so-they-feel-good-about-themselves” and “sign-up-for-every-activity-so-they-don’t-miss-anything.” Being tardy to school isn’t the end of the world, but missing a night of sleep just might be.

I wish I could go back and give my younger self a peek through these older eyes. Maybe I could save her some of the heartache and sleepless nights, help her enjoy more and worry less. If I could whisper in her ear, I’d say …

Do today, today and tomorrow, tomorrow. Make a list if you must, but write it in pencil. Regardless of popular (flawed) belief, you can’t control it all or do it all. Take one day at time. What doesn’t get done today can be tackled tomorrow. Or next week. Maybe next year. But don’t try to save the world on a Monday. You’re human, not divine. Cut yourself a break.

Everyone contributes. Responsibility isn’t something you teach a high school senior, right before they head off to college. It’s something you dish out in servings from the moment kids eat off a plate. Everyone contributes. Laundry. Conversation. Dishes. Dreams. Dog poop. Everyone. It’s a little thing we call teamwork. And it will impact every one of your child’s relationships.

Tell the truth, keep your word. When it comes to hills to die on, this is your Mount Everest. Lying isn’t tolerated. Promises are absolutes. All the other lessons you try to teach won’t matter if your “yes” and “no” aren’t bedrock. In a culture of gray, integrity is the family’s black and white. Cheat this, and you fail.

Family meals and a good night’s sleep matter more than you think. Every day you’ll be tempted to join this, sign up for those, register for that. It will all seem important, and you’ll wrestle with what to do. But extracurricular activities and packed calendars aren’t the priority. Emotional, physical and spiritual health are. Eat food that doesn’t come through your car window. Gather everyone around a table. Get more sleep than you think you can afford. Teach your children what setting boundaries looks like. It matters more than you think.

What advice would you give your younger self? 

He left it on my desk, right before he walked out the door for school. A large, 11 x 17 creation with the four letters of his name carved in red and black marker. His way of saying, “I’m here. Don’t forget about me.”

It’s been well over a year since he joined our family. Within a month of his arrival, we nicknamed him “Radar.” Because from the moment he wakes up until his head hits the pillow at night, he’s pinging the world with constant reminders that he exists.

Some days he does this by following me from room to room, afraid to let me leave his sight. Other days he says “I love you” a hundred times, ping after ping from a 5-year-old desperate for a hundred “I love you’s” in return.

Other days his radar pings aren’t so sweet, like the time he punched the kid on the playground and shoved his sister off the sidewalk. Or the stranger he wrapped himself around because he needed a hug. Or the many days when the sound of his tantrums fills our home. When his need grows desperate, his pings turn into screams and tears.

It’s been a struggle for me, his never-assuaged neediness. I understand the hurt behind it, the attachment wounds that fuel his fear and insecurity. But the depth of his void also overwhelms me. I’m entirely unable to fill it. He is a black hole that swallows up all of the love and reassurance I offer. I pour and I pour, but still he comes up empty, starving for more.

Even so, I say a hundred “I love you’s,” and pray, pray, pray the God who sees his presence in this world will somehow help him heal.

Today, as I look as his name on my desk in kindergarten script, I realize how very much like all of us he is. We, too, have fearsome black holes in need of filling. We, too, ping the world with our presence, asking for reassurance that we matter.

Some days it looks like too many hours on Facebook or a nagging negative attitude. But sometimes our radar pings aren’t so pretty. Hiding a deep hole, we scream and pout and throw tantrums of adult-sized portions. We complain, criticize, accuse, overreact, blame, gossip and throw ourselves at near strangers asking them to follow us, friend us, and value our life’s work. Behind the meltdown, our need is the same:

To feel safe. Loved. Heard.

But a thousand radar pings aren’t going to fill our void. It might afford us a few quick affirmations or momentary sympathies. But our black hole of need will eventually swallow up even the best attempts to make us feel loved. And, before long, the world wearies of pouring into someone who never seems to fill.

To know we matter comes from within, not without. It’s not an external filling, but an internal confidence. My value, your value isn’t subject to a public vote. It’s not based on that painful criticism you received or the long history of mistakes you’ve made.

It’s not based on anything you do, but the fact that you are.

“I have engraved you on the palm of my hand,” God says. He tattoos your existence in this world—your name—on his very self. No need to remind him of your presence. No fear He’ll ever forget.

This is the solid mooring for all the other fillings. When we know our worth and secure our lives on that truth, a hundred offered “I love you’s” don’t disappear into the dark abyss. They simply add to what the One who made us already said is true. And—finally, against all odds—we find ourselves full.

Someday my little boy will get this. Someday he’ll understand that all the wounds of the world can not wipe away the four letters of his name inscribed on a Father’s hand.

Someday.

Until then, I’ll whisper a hundred “I love you’s.” And make sure he knows about the One who means those sweet words the very most of all.

Do you ever find yourself pinging the world for reassurance? How do you recapture a sense of security and confidence?

“To be nobody-but-yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody but yourself—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight—and never stop fighting.” —E. E. Cummings

Within seconds of hitting “send,” I regretted it.

In the span of a few hundred words, I’d revealed an honest and tender part of myself to more than a thousand readers. From the moment I started the draft, caution warned me to write something bland, or at least wait until a “happier” day to write it. But I’d blindly stumbled forward, deep as I was in the mire. And then hit “send.”

Uh-oh.

I should’ve told that silly story about my kids. Maybe shared a recipe for enchiladas. Crowd-pleasers, both of them. No risk, no exposure. Instead, I’d told the truth. And instantly wished I hadn’t.

What if they think I’m weak or negative?
What if they don’t like this version of me?
What if I end up alone?

These questions pelted me like hail on a roof, beating me down with self doubt. But I recognized the assault. Every time I share my truest self in a blog post, on a platform or with a friend over coffee, I face the same deluge. Every. Single. Time.

Authenticity is a battle. To be who I think you want me to be is easy. To be who I really am takes serious courage.

Like most of us, I prefer safety over pain, acceptance over rejection. I don’t enjoy that raw and exposed place. And I don’t enjoy the risk that comes with it. And authenticity it IS risky:

• Some people prefer the “together” me over the complicated, worry-prone, transparent me.
• “How are you?” doesn’t mean the person who asked it really wants to know the answer.
• Telling the truth increases the odds that I’ll be misinterpreted, misunderstood and alone.

Authenticity means I could end up hurt. In fact, I probably will. It’s choosing to sit outside in a storm knowing there’s a chance of getting wet. Self-preservation says to stay inside, where the walls and windows reduce exposure. But isolation and fear are their own kind of pain. And staying behind walls means never knowing the feel of rain. Authenticity, on the other hand …

Sets me free. Choosing to be true—even at the risk of rejection and misunderstanding—takes the sting out of the fear that holds us hostage. Hiding doesn’t remove the fear. It only compounds it. Honesty, however, allows us to experience the reward on the other side: freedom.

Gives permission. I am most drawn to imperfect, in-progress people. Why? Because I am the same. With them, I feel safe. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard someone tell me, “I’m so relieved to know I’m not alone!” Being authentic about our struggles and successes (yes, both), gives those around us permission to be fully, freely themselves.

Invites connection. Authenticity both attracts and repels. It serves as a sieve, sifting those who desire true connection from those who simply want to rub shoulders with a mirage. I don’t have the energy to invest in facades. But I do have a desire for meaningful relationships with those who know how to both be honest and receive honesty, with grace and acceptance. But it only happens if you and I choose to go first.

Authenticity—true authenticity—is not a fad or trendy phrase. It’s a daily battle, full of both discomfort and risk. But, ultimately, its the path to the peace, freedom and relationship we want.

All of which are a whole lot more satisfying than a pan of enchiladas.

How have you experienced the rewards of authenticity in your life?

[NOTE: Many conversations and resources have contributed to my ongoing commitment to authenticity. Recently, a book by Brene Brown has been quite enlightening: The Gifts of Imperfection. From the perspective of both a therapist and a fellow struggler, Brene shares both significant research and personal experience. I think you'll find it rich.]

“Drudgery is one of the finest touchstones of character there is. Drudgery is work that is very far removed from anything to do with the ideal—the utterly mean grubby things; and when we come in contact with them we know instantly whether or not we are spiritually real. Read John 13. We see there the Incarnate God doing the most desperate piece of drudgery, washing fishermen’s feet … Some people do a certain thing and the way in which they do it hallows that thing for ever afterwards. It may be the most commonplace thing, but after we have seen them do it, it becomes different.” —Oswald Chambers, My Upmost for His Highest

Today I will serve Cheerios, wash dishes, put up pigtails and run to the store. I might even clean a bathroom and do a load or two of laundry. In between all that, I’ll do the ordinary, non-glamorous and non-ideal tasks of running a business.

But if a King could wash fishermen’s feet—and so utterly change the thing with his dignity and devotion—so can I.

To my friends who are neck deep in the mundane with me today, may we wash today’s feet with grace.

Because hidden in the commonplace, we just might discover the hallowed.

Valentine’s Day.

Some of you just melted in your chair at the mention. Your special someone has a date planned. Hand-holding. Flowers. Quoted poetry. Long, uninterrupted gazes and whispered “I love you’s.”

Dreamy.

Others of you (those who just threw up) denounce this ridiculous holiday as another marketing gimmick to sell cards and chocolate. You’re boycotting it completely. You’re no fool.

To parents of young children (Me! Me! Me!), Valentine’s Day is nothing more than gluing uncommonly small pieces of construction paper and glitter to shoeboxes, helping little Jack write three thousand Scooby-Doo valentines, and whipping up one billion cupcakes decorated with frosting and sprinkles for the classroom party. Which, of course, will leave him riding on a sugar high that will last well past Easter.

Romantic dinner? I don’t think so.

To the single, divorced and widowed, you don’t have much of anything planned. February 14 is just one more painful reminder that life is absent someone to share it with. A day you wish was over with already. Been there, my friend. I get it.

Valentine’s Day is tough. So much hope and expectation and disappointment wrapped into one Hallmark holiday. I’ve had my share of sweet ones, including 16 years ago today when Valentine’s Day brought me a 9 lb. 5 oz. baby boy. But I’ve also had my share of tough ones, day I both boycotted and grieved. Still, regardless of the bitter and the sweet, at heart I’ve always wanted one thing:

To feel wanted. Not just for what I do. But for who I am.

Whether we admit it freely or hide it deep within, this is what we all want. To feel like we matter, that someone “out there” thinks we’re one-of-a-kind. And so we spend the 13^th of February hoping that sometime during the 14^th there will be someone who whispers in our ear …

I choose you. 

I don’t know relational status, nor do I know the status of your faith. But today I can’t not tell you about Someone who thinks you’re worth far more than you think. Out of all the Valentines you receive or don’t receive today, I want you to know there’s a very real God who says this about you:

• I will fight for you. (Exodus 14:14)
• I am the LORD who heals you. (Exodus 15:26)
• I will rain down bread from heaven for you. (Exodus 16:4)
• I will never leave you nor forsake you. (Deuteronomy 31:8)
• I am your refuge. (Deuteronomy 33:27)
• I will sustain you. (Psalm 55:22)
• I will watch over you. (Psalm 121:5)
• I will fulfill my purpose for you. (Psalm 138:8)
• I will heal the brokenhearted. (Psalm 147:3)
• I will gently lead those that have young. (Isaiah 40:11)
• I will strengthen you and help you. (Isaiah 41:10)
• I have summoned you by name. (Isaiah 43:1)
• I love you. (Isaiah 43:2)
• I remember your sins no more. (Isaiah 43:25)
• I have made you and I will carry you. (Isaiah 46:4)
• I will sustain you and I will rescue you. (Isaiah 46: 4)
• I have you engraved on the palms of my hands. (Isaiah 49:16)
• I will direct you in the way you should go. (Isaiah 48:17)
• I will make you a light. (Isaiah 49:6)
• I am he who comforts you. (Isaiah 51:12)
• My unfailing love for you will not be shaken. (Isaiah 54:10)
• I will give you rest. (Matt. 11:28)
• You are worth more than many sparrows. (Matt. 10:30)
• I am with you always. (Matt. 28:20)
• Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. (Luke 6:21)
• I have called you friend. (John 15:15)
• I chose you. (John 15:16)
• I am coming for you. (Revelation 22:7, 12, 20)

What He says, He means. Now and forever.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends. And remember, regardless of what’s in store today, the God of the Universe, the one who created you from the tips of your toes to the twinkling of your eyes …

He chooses YOU.

Which of these reassurances mean the most to you today? Is there someone else who needs to hear it?

Like what you do. If you don’t like it, do something else. —Paul Harvey

In an instant, I traveled back in time.

Thirty years, at least. To the house I grew up in. The one with the white brick fireplace, giant picture window, and pecan trees lining the width of a one-acre back yard.

I sat on my parent’s queen-sized bed, dressed and ready for school. A few feet away, my mom fussed with her hair and put on make-up in the bathroom. Down the hall, I could hear my dad washing dishes in the kitchen before leaving for work, something he did most every morning.

There, cocooned by the sights and sounds of childhood, Paul Harvey wooed me through the radio with his stories.

It’s been a lifetime since those days. Now I’m the mom primping in the bathroom, a houseful of children and a husband filling my days with the sights and sounds of life.

But Sunday night I heard his voice again. Like the smell of my grandfather’s Old Spice, Paul Harvey took me back in time. Based on the flurry of posts in my media feeds, he did the same for you. A two-minute advertisement designed to sell trucks, but accomplishing much more than that. One voice. Two minutes.

And more “feel good” than any dancing and prancing delivered in the halftime show.

God help us.

We need less flash and more substance.

In our pursuit of success and meaning—in writing, parenting, relating, leading—we work so hard at generating flash and flair. We want a glitzy presentation, a shiny something to validate our worth and impress our world.

But the extraordinary can’t be manufactured. It must be mined.

The world is—we are—far less impressed with flash than we think. We may stare at the TV screen for the length of concert. We may dress up, sign up, read People magazine and rub important shoulders. But life’s reality dulls the shine of the shallow. We discover, at heart, it’s substance we crave more than anything.

That’s what Paul Harvey offered. Substance. A glimpse of the extraordinary hidden in the ordinary of every day life.

He didn’t need a light show or racy costume to deliver his art. Neither did he let the production aspects of his job distract him from the excellent execution of it. He believed in the simple offering of story, and mastered the telling of it. In the process, he made us believe that he did it for us.

In fact, I think he did.

We can do the same. We must. If we’re to build our lives, careers and families on substance, we must have eyes to see and a heart to receive the gifts buried in the ordinary moments of everyday life.

For what the extraordinary lacks in flair, it makes up for in legacy.

Not unlike a stable’s manger holding an infant King.

This weekend, Paul Harvey inspired us once again. Not to buy a truck or take up farming. He inspired us to mine our lives for its offerings. To focus less on flash and more on substance. To do what we do with passion, excellence, and a heart that knows it matters. Not for a fleeting halftime show. But for the way an ordinary life can impact another in extraordinary ways even thirty years years down the road.

That’s the rest of his story.

And, I hope, the rest of ours.

Where will you look for the extraordinary in today?

2,200 women. Packed into one room. Hoping to hear something inspiring and life-changing from little ‘ole me.

Gulp.

This past weekend, I was the keynote speaker at women’s conference in Texas. I have to admit—I was a little nervous. It wasn’t the biggest audience I’ve been in front of (11,000 in California). But it definitely wasn’t the smallest (2 in Colorado. Yes, 2.).

Still, 2,200 definitely carried some intimidation. There was a time when the thought of standing in front of ANY crowd made me forfeit my lunch. Speech class, senior year of high school, less than 30 people.

I. wanted. to. die.

But this time, with a room full of women looking back at me, I didn’t panic. And I didn’t lose my lunch. Sure, I had a small case of nerves before I hit the stage. Dropped my notes, fumbled with my headset mic. I’ve learned it comes with the territory, a gift that reminds me I am certainly not all that and a bag of chips.

But panic? Not a bit. In fact, I had a blast. One of the most rewarding speaking experiences I’ve had to date. And that’s really something coming from someone who knows more about chicken than Colonel Sanders.

What made the difference? Certainly my involvement with the SCORRE Conference plays a big part. But it’s more than that.

I’ve changed my script.

In the past, when facing a potentially terrifying situation, I’d list of all the reasons it would be a disaster. I can’t do this. I’m not good enough. They’re going to hate me. What if I make a fool of myself? You know the drill. Because you’ve said some of the same things, too.

No more. It took me a while, but now I realize what a waste those messages are. Instead of rehearsing imminent failure, I rehearse positive truths that change my focus, and my enjoyment of the experience.

It doesn’t matter if your moment of terror is on a stage, leading a new organization, or parenting your kids. We all face risks that seem bigger than our abilities. When that happens and panic threatens to choke the moment, here’s what to say to get a quick dose of courage:

“I’m so excited!” Before any big event, I used to mutter, “I’m so nervous.” I’d tell my husband, friends, even whisper it to myself again and again. My friend, Lucille, was the first to point out that replacing “I’m so nervous” with “I’m so excited” would completely change the dynamic. It removes fear and adds anticipation. Even if you don’t believe it at first, say it anyway and soon your heart rate drops and mood changes. Seriously, this one piece of advice is a goldmine.

“This opportunity is a gift.” I believe sharing a moment in time with someone else is a rare and sacred privilege—whether 2 or 2,200. Don’t take it for granted. Moreover, in a recent podcast, my friend Michael Hyatt said these overwhelming situations can be some of the most valuable learning experiences. Remember, a long line of people would give anything to have a similar opportunity. Don’t waste it being all wrapped up in negative, energy-draining emotions. Instead, honor the experience with gratitude.

“It’s not about me.” Warning: I’m going to be blunt. Nervousness is self-consumption. It’s an outward symptom of an inward focus. To counteract it, picture the faces of real people dealing with real life. Imagine their stories and what they need most. Say, “It’s not about me” as many times as it takes. Then, when taking the stage, look them in the eye and do everything you can to meet that need. It really isn’t about you and me. It’s about the people we’re serving.

“I am enough.” I am 41 years old. And, though it pains me to admit it, I’ve spent many of those years trying to earn my real estate on this Earth, trying to please and impress everyone from my husband and children to the strangers passing me on my morning run. It’s exhausting. So in the last few years I’ve (started to) let that go. I have a multitude of flaws. I reproduce them like bunnies in the spring. But no one can do me like I can. And the real me—even with all those flaws—has far more to offer than a cheap, plastic imitation.

What situations terrify you? How can changing your script change the experience?