HA MA-HA MA – HA MA

Yes, I’ve been on stage and given speeches — but one moment still stands above all the others.

Back in 2002, when I was a district manager for Kohl’s, I was asked to represent our company at a very public event. Kohl’s was donating $5 million to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, money that would be used to build a new gastroenterology wing.

It was a big deal — not just for Kohl’s and the hospital, but for the city too.

Under normal circumstances, public speaking never bothered me. I ran long meetings all the time. I could stand in front of hundreds of people and talk for hours about numbers, strategy, performance, and plans — especially when I knew the material cold. That kind of speaking felt natural.

This was different.

This time, there were TV cameras, news outlets, hospital executives, city dignitaries, and senior leaders from my own company standing just feet away. Instead of speaking freely, I was handed a one-page prepared speech.

I couldn’t read it.

I had to deliver it from memory.

For me, that felt less like public speaking and more like that classic Jackie Gleason Honeymooners episode — Chef of the Future.
“Hama ha ma ha ma…”

If you’re too young to remember it, do yourself a favor and YouTube it. That’s exactly what my brain felt like under pressure.

To make matters even better, the event took place on one of the hottest days in Philadelphia’s history. The kind of heat where your shirt sticks to your back before you even step outside. The kind where concentration feels optional.

I spent the entire day memorizing that speech. I practiced it over and over at home — pacing, stopping, starting again. I knew every line, every pause, every word I was supposed to emphasize. By the time I stepped up to the podium, I was mentally exhausted, physically uncomfortable, and more nervous than I cared to admit.

But somehow… I got through it.

I don’t remember every word I said. I don’t remember what I did with my hands. What I do remember is the moment afterward — the quiet realization that something had shifted inside me. I also remember that I was soaking wet when it was over. Completely drenched. My peers told me I did a good job. I nodded, thanked them, and smiled — but inside, I seriously doubted it.

Then came the part everyone recognizes from the photos.

You know the drill — the silver shovels, all of us lined up shoulder to shoulder for the groundbreaking ceremony. Executives, hospital leadership, city officials, cameras flashing, each of us holding one of those polished ceremonial shovels and smiling as if this was all effortless.

Standing there in that heat, taking that first symbolic scoop of dirt, it hit me: that moment wasn’t just about a building going up. For me, it marked crossing a line I had avoided for years.

Breaking through that fear — on that hot summer day, under those cameras — changed me.

It taught me something simple and lasting.

Nothing meaningful happens inside the comfort zone.

The comfort zone feels safe. Predictable. Familiar. But it’s also where growth stalls. Every real step forward I’ve ever taken came from doing something uncomfortable — something I would have preferred to avoid.

Confidence doesn’t arrive first and invite you along. Confidence is built after you step forward anyway.

That day taught me that fear doesn’t disappear before action — it disappears because of it. And once you push past that invisible boundary, the comfort zone gets a little bigger… and so do you.