THE SPEECH

Adventures in Public Speaking

It’s that time of year again—when families gather, turkey gets overcooked, and someone, usually the host, taps a knife against a wine glass and decides to make everyone emotional right before the stuffing.

I have never been one of those effortless speech-givers. I envy them. The people who can stand up, clear their throat, toss out a perfect anecdote, and boom—instant applause, maybe even a tear or two.

Meanwhile, I overthink.
I develop a nervous tick.
I black out and wake up next to the toilet.

And afterward, I apologize to people who didn’t even know a speech occurred.

I’ve bombed in every setting imaginable: Dinner parties, my best friend’s bachelor party, hell, I even shit the bed at my own wedding. Not literally. I’ve already told you a shit story.

And then there was my grandmother’s funeral.

No one told me I’d be speaking. The rabbi just turned, said my name, and suddenly I was at the podium with no notes, no warning, and zero emotional prep—just adrenaline and the vague sense that I was about to cry in front of people who were all sitting six feet apart.

I talked about our shared obsession with The Bachelor—her favorite calls, the heroes and villains, the helicopter dates that defied physics as they zipped under the waterfall.

But afterward, I regretted that my whole speech revolved around a show that hadn’t made an imprint on my life until that very moment. There was so much more to the relationship that I wish I had brought up.

And that’s the thing about “the moment”:

We say what we say, we do what we do, and for the rest of our lives, we either feel proud of it…
OR
We wish we could grab a time machine and try again—this time with a fuller view of the relationship and better jokes.

I’ve spent years obsessing and replaying every speech I’ve ever given—the lines I missed, the pauses I botched, the emotions I couldn’t quite articulate. Part of me knows it’s ridiculous. The other part has absolutely constructed a multi-season prestige drama in my head, written by a writers’ room made up with those who had to suffer through my failed toasts, complete with flashbacks, voiceover, and a redemption arc I still haven’t gotten.

Which brings me to the best speech I ever wrote.

A speech I never actually gave.
Nobody ever did.

I wrote it for a Thanksgiving movie called Friendsgiving—a film that was never made. In the story, the weekend host, Tom (imagine Kevin Nealon in a white suit having the late-career renaissance he deserves), stands at the head of the table, surveys the chaos of his beloved friends who have spent the weekend drinking, cheating, stopping a robbery, and then says this:

TOM:
“I’ve been thinking about what I wanted to say tonight for a while, but the words kept escaping me. Now, seeing your faces, it all makes sense.

I grew up with these enormous, cinematic ideas of what Thanksgiving should be—what any holiday should be. But nothing in life goes as planned.

One day you’re going to wake up, you’ll be seventy, and you’ll wonder where the time went. The stupid fun things you used to do with your friends? Suddenly, they’re frowned upon.

So here’s my advice: find the one person who loves you for you, and never let them go.

And with that, all I think there is left to say is, Happy Thanksgiving!”

And you know what? I think the reason that speech works—while so many of mine didn’t—is because Tom doesn’t overthink it. He says the truth we all try to outrun: life only feels big when we share it. The fear of being alone is real, but so is the cure—choose your people, love them hard, and don’t let go.

So instead of ending this piece by saying, “This is the year I’ll try giving another speech,” I want to do something different.

HERE IS THE SPEECH I’D GIVE TO YOU, IF WE WERE AT THE SAME TABLE TONIGHT—CRESCENT ROLL IN ONE HAND, GLASS OF WINE IN THE OTHER:

ME:

“I didn’t understand when I was younger how much of my strength came from the people around me.
I thought power was something we all built ourselves.
But it’s not.
Power is borrowed. Power is shared. Power is earned through love, through family, through friendship, through the people who show up for you again and again.

We are so much more powerful when we put our love out into the world. Just don’t put too much love out there. That’s how cults start.

So my advice to you:

Surround yourself with good people.
Tell them you love them—more than you think you should.
Hug them—more than you think you should, but not so much that it gets creepy.
Tell them a story you remember that brought you joy, and I bet it does the same for them.
Bring them back into your life, not just in your memory.”

And maybe that’s the key to speeches.

Maybe they don’t have to move the world.
Maybe they just have to be true to the moment.

So as you think about whether you want to get up at the table and say something tonight, remember: It’s about a feeling.

If you feel it—say it.
Let the chips fall where they may.
There are no redos in life.

So take the mic.
And let it rip.