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Most presenters don’t realise when they disappear. It usually happens the moment they step behind the lectern. Not their voice. Their presence. Because nothing obvious changes. The slides are still there. From the audience’s point of view, the talk continues. But something else quietly drops away. The energy. And often, it’s not deliberate. It’s instinct. When the room is full and the lights are bright, we look for something solid. Something to stand behind. Something that feels like protection. So the lectern becomes a shield. And without realising it… we start speaking from cover. 💡 ONE IDEA WELLWe don’t just speak ideas. We show them. With our hands, we: It’s part of how humans make meaning. But when you stand behind a lectern, that channel narrows. Your hands disappear from view. And with it, something else fades. Clarity. Because the lectern isn’t just furniture. It’s cover. It gives you something to hold. But that same cover hides the very signals your audience relies on. The small movements that help them follow your thinking. There’s data behind this. In an analysis of TED Talks, Vanessa Van Edwards and her team found that the most popular speakers used nearly twice as many hand gestures as less popular ones. More gestures. Not because it looks better. Because it makes the message easier to understand. Your hands don’t just move. They translate. Vanessa Van Edwards has written more about this in her breakdown of TED Talks: This isn’t about being theatrical. 🧰 LESS MESS, MORE MESSAGEIf you can, step out from behind the lectern. Not dramatically. Just a step to the left. Then let your body back into the conversation. Let your hands live in the same space as your story. You don’t need to add anything new. Just stop hiding what’s already there. 🧭 ASK YOURSELF THISWhen you stand up to speak… are you stepping forward - or stepping into cover? |
One idea a week to help you teach and present with more clarity, confidence, and calm. No fluff. No scripts. Just practical tools that land.
Rusty put his hands on my shoulders before he asked. We were in the middle of the auditorium, the session just finished, people filing past us towards the doors. He leaned forward from the row behind, hands on my shoulders, and asked if he could give me some feedback. I said yes. People usually do, then immediately wish they hadn't. "It might not be neuro-inclusive," he said. He meant the stage. Every session at DFTB, since the very first one, we've had all three speakers and the chair sit up...
Ten years ago this week, I flew 17,000 kilometres to attend a medical conference in Dublin. I am not someone who loves large crowds. Which is a little ironic because I have spent the last decade co-organising a paediatric conference that deliberately fills a room with them. I also arrived in Dublin with a pocket full of stickers and a sheet of temporary tattoos, because my colleagues and I were trying to advertise the very first conference for a small paediatric education website we had built...
The room was full of ear, nose and throat surgeons. Not medical students. Not trainees finding their feet. Paediatric ENT specialists: people who had spent careers peering into small ears and whipping out obstinate tonsils. And I was about to tell them things about paediatric ENT. I felt it when I saw my name on the programme. Again, when I walked into the room. Again, when I stepped onto the stage. That specific, stomach-tightening variety of doubt that asks: what the hell am I doing here? I...