My TEDx Talk

The day before my TEDx talk, I stood on the
stage during rehearsal and forgot my lines. Here I was, about to give a talk
about presence and intimacy, and I couldn’t even remember my own words. I
wasn’t bringing my full energy, and everyone in the room could feel it.

Karola Sakotnik, the organizer, looked at me and said, “Anna, share yourself and
your energy with us.” Then she showed me what she meant. Karola is an incredible speaker herself, and watching her demonstrate full presence reminded me of something I already knew but had forgotten in my nervousness: this isn’t
about performing. It’s about giving.

On November 19, 2025, I delivered my talk
“Loving Conflict: The Intimacy That Builds Collaboration Across
Division” to a packed auditorium in Graz, Austria.

I shared something I’ve been living with for decades: the idea that conflict doesn’t destroy intimacy, it builds it. But before I could share that message with an audience, I had to learn it again myself, through the preparation, through the people who held me, and through a twelve-year-old who apparently knows more about life than I do.

The Speaking Coach Who Taught Me to Hear

I’ve been working with Patricia Fripp for
several years now, going back for coaching a couple of times a year, and each
time I come away humbled and transformed. Mostly humbled. Patricia is legendary
in the speaking world, direct and wise and deeply caring, and our first
sessions years ago were hard in a way I didn’t expect. She gave feedback on
everything: how I stood, how I touched my hair (”Anna, never touch your
hair when you are on stage!”), how I showed up.

Hearing criticism of these things got me upset, and I would watch the recordings of our sessions afterward and notice that I had missed big pieces of what she said because her directness had made me lose focus. The irony of not being able to hear feedback about how I show up was not lost on me.

But I knew it all came from a kind heart. She really cared about me and my message, and she wanted me to do my best. She taught me to stand straight, to be proud of my accent rather than scared of it, to replace “but” with “rather” or “yet,” which is
such a small change but it shifted how I frame ideas entirely. Her method for
memorizing a talk: read the script thirty times before you even start to
memorize, don’t rush to learn the words, let them sink in first

Patricia’s own story inspires me. She started
as a hairstylist at eighteen, working in salons in the Channel Islands and then
San Francisco, and while other stylists took lunch breaks, she welcomed five
more clients. She became the first woman elected President of the National
Speakers Association and has delivered over 3,500 presentations worldwide. Her
brother, legendary guitarist Robert Fripp of King Crimson, once said: “I
am not surprised my sister gets paid to tell people what to do. She was a very
bossy little girl.” From hairstylist to Hall of Fame speaker, through
relentless work and constant learning. Because of her, I think more clearly and
speak better than I ever have.

The Friend Brave Enough to Tell Me the Truth

My original script opened with a story about
my brother Gleb. He was six years older than me, brilliant, stubborn, endlessly
charismatic, and I spent my whole life trying to be close to him, to be seen by
him. It never worked.

When he was diagnosed with cancer at forty, I thought, finally, this is my chance to connect. But every time I tried to talk to him, he turned away and just watched TV in silence. My husband said something simple: “Why not connect where he wants to connect?” So I sat beside Gleb and watched whatever was on. Hours, days, weeks of silence and a flickering screen.

And then one day, he asked me to shave his head, to help him dress. We laughed at something ridiculous on TV, and finally, he spoke. He told me everything I had wanted to know for thirty years: his fears, his memories, his love for me. In those last weeks, we found what I’d spent a lifetime chasing, by doing the one thing I’d never tried: just being there.

I loved this story. I wanted it to open my talk.

My friend Natacha Kucic, a storytelling expert, sent me a message that started with “Please don’t hate me for saying this.” She explained that the Gleb story, however touching, was about a specific sub-section of conflict: silence, the inability to engage at all. It didn’t introduce the key message about learning to love conflict.
“If you need space, and I think you do, I would cut it out.” She also
pointed out that I was missing an initial hook, something sufficiently
intriguing that the audience would want to follow me for the duration of the
speech. She even suggested what became my opening: “We are told conflict
is bad, we are told to avoid it, to be nice to each other. My take is
different. I suggest we learn to love it.”

She was right about everything, and it was
painful to hear. Natacha practiced what I teach: she loved me enough to tell me
a truth I didn’t want to hear. The opening she suggested became the opening I
delivered. I removed the Gleb story from the talk entirely. I know I will tell
it differently someday. For now, it lives in my book Loving Conflict,
coming out in March 2026. Her courage made my talk stronger.

The Twelve-Year-Old Who Reminded Me What Matters

A few weeks before TEDx, my twelve-year-old
son Sasha was preparing for the World Scholar’s Cup competition at Yale, and I
got overly competitive for him. I wanted him to practice more, study more, win.
He stopped me and said, “Mom, I’m going to do my best, and I want to make
sure I’m having fun and enjoying this, before, during, and after.” Good
thing this global competition is about debating and persuading, because he
certainly rocks both.

Something clicked when he said that. My mentor
Jesús de la Garza had been teaching me the same thing for months: focus on joy,
not competition. But hearing it from my son made it land differently. Jesús
later pointed out that this argument with Sasha was actually the first step in
my TEDx preparation. I thought I was just parenting. He saw me learning what I
needed to learn before I could stand on that stage.

The City That Softened Me

I had never been to Graz before, and the
beauty and softness of the city surprised me. The people too. The day before
the talk, Julia Braunegg gave me a private tour. Julia is a TEDx speaker
herself, one of the first women players of underwater rugby, and her talk about
that experience and leadership was amazing. She grew up in Graz and knows its
history. Graz was one of the few Austrian cities not destroyed during World War
II, and the history lives in its architecture, its narrow streets, its quiet corners.
Walking through it with her, I felt myself slow down.

The organizers and volunteers moved with so much heart, truly caring about the speakers, the audience, the team, and no one was rushing because everyone was present.

The speakers had already become a community before we arrived because Karola had created a WhatsApp group and we’d met on Zoom calls and been supporting each other for weeks. There was no spirit of competition, only lifting each other up. We went for a local Austrian dinner together and practiced at the venue, testing slides and clickers, seeing how everything would look. My slides, designed by Frank Roesner, looked beautiful next to the TEDx logo. Of course they did. Frank is excellent at what he does.

The Morning of the Talk

November 19th. I went for a long walk through
Graz in the fresh morning air, connecting with who I am and why I do this work,
and the walk lowered my nervousness. When I arrived at the venue it was buzzing
with energy and excitement, and I noticed something about myself: I wanted to
connect with the other speakers, but I also wanted time alone to keep feeling
who I am, to scan my body. I used what I’d learned from Vipassana meditation
and Alexander Technique, checking in with my breath, noticing where I was
holding tension, letting my body find its natural alignment.

I was the second speaker out of fifteen, which
was lucky timing because the energy in the room was very high. The audience was
curious and ready to learn and discover, a kind audience.

Flying

When I walked onto that stage, I felt like I was flying. I only saw the people sitting there, and I only felt how important it was to share what I think and feel about conflict and intimacy. I forgot the cameras and the photographer completely, and now I’m worried I won’t have any direct shots or video with my face. I forgot to be present for the cameras. But in that moment, I forgot everything except the faces looking back at me and the words I had come to say.

Fifteen minutes passed. I don’t know where they went. I closed with the words I believe in most: “Stay close. Fight kindly. Love deeply.” And then it was over, and I walked off stage feeling something I can only describe as tender. Scared and tender. Also liberated and joyful.

The organizers had prepared small glass jars with each speaker’s name on them, and audience members could drop love notes into them after our talks. Later that evening, I opened mine. “Simply wow.
Powerful, courageous, clear.” “Your talk really touched my heart and
made me cry.” “Your talk touched a part of me that has been loud
lately, but I didn’t know what to do with it. Today, I found clarity on what I
have been feeling.” “Thank you Anna! Can’t wait to learn more about
conflict, curiosity, and you.” I read each one slowly. This is what being
held feels like.

Staying for Others

After my talk, I stayed in the front row for
the rest of the day, sending all my love and good wishes and energy to every
speaker who came after me. That felt amazing, to be there for everyone else, to
not disappear into my own experience but to stay present for theirs. Julie
Simstich spoke about neuro-inclusion and ADHD, Georg Wawschinek, Najib Khan,
Nathalie Starke each brought their own wisdom and courage, and watching them,
supporting them, I felt part of something larger than my own talk.

This is what the organizers had created: not a
competition, but a community.

What I’d Do Differently

Would I do it again? Absolutely. Witnessing
the organizers and their team, their excellence and cohesion and true
collaboration, seeing how much satisfaction and joy they derived from creating
this event, was informative and inspiring. Meeting the other speakers, hearing
their stories, witnessing their drive and urge to share what they’ve learned,
all of it confirmed why this matters.

But next time, I’ll start earlier. I only had ten days to write, memorize, and practice because I was traveling before and finishing my book. Ten days. For a TEDx talk. Not my finest planning.

The practice part was actually a lot of joy and pleasure, and I would have wanted more of it, to get even more intimate
with the script and with how I wanted to share it. Patricia Fripp says to read
the script thirty times before memorizing. I believe her now. The more time you
spend with the words, the more they become yours, and the less you’re
performing and the more you’re giving.

What Standing on That Stage Taught Me

I went to Graz to share a message about intimacy and conflict, but standing on that stage, sharing so vulnerably and honestly, that was me finally practicing what I teach. It only took me twenty-five years to get there. Intimacy. It was scary and tender, also
liberating and joyful.

I closed my talk with these words: “The
quality of your life is determined by the quality of your relationships. And
the quality of those relationships? That’s intimacy.”

I couldn’t have done this without the people who held me. Patricia, who taught me to hear feedback I didn’t want to hear.
Natacha, who was brave enough to tell me to cut a story I loved. My son Sasha,
who reminded me that joy matters more than winning. My husband Jerome and our
kids, who gave me space to work through my nerves. My parents, who understand
why this work matters so deeply to me. Frank, Jenny, Raisa, Claude, who
reviewed my script and gave honest feedback. The organizers of TEDx Graz who created camaraderie instead of competition. And Jesús, who saw that my argument with my son was preparation for the stage.

We think we prepare for big moments alone. We
don’t. We prepare through everyone who shapes us, challenges us, and holds us.
That’s intimacy too.

What big moment are you preparing for, and who
is holding you through it?