Debate competitions. Just the mere thought of those two words still makes me break into a cold sweat. If I were to rank the most terrifying things from my childhood, debates would comfortably take second place, right after the horror of forgetting my homework and facing my mom’s wrath.

  Now, for the record, I wasn’t exactly the sporty type. I was the kind of kid who could trip over a puddle of air while walking, so that ruled out most athletic pursuits. So, when it came time for extracurricular activities, my mom, being a teacher and all, decided debates would be my thing. In her eyes, debates were the perfect way to groom me into a confident, articulate individual.

  Sounds good in theory, right?

  The problem was, my confidence had this peculiar habit of evaporating faster than water in the desert the moment I stood in front of an audience. It’s like a switch flipped, and suddenly, I was the world’s most awkward, shy, and slightly panicked version of myself.

  I had no problem talking in small groups or even answering questions in class—there, my thoughts came out in a neat little package. But ask me to stand on a stage, in front of an entire room full of people, and suddenly, I forgot how to speak English. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what I wanted to say; I just couldn’t get the words out.

  There I’d be, in front of the mic, my heart racing, my palms sweating so much I could’ve filled a swimming pool. The worst part? The audience. You could practically feel their eyes boring into you, as if each blink was timed to your utter failure. The silence was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. And all I could do was stand there, clutching my notes like a lifeline, praying for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

  To make matters worse, my elder brother and sister were debate legends in our family. My brother was the undisputed champion of anything that required verbal prowess. He once won a national-level science congress, dazzling everyone with his eloquence, fluency, and ability to sound like a walking encyclopedia. I swear, when he spoke, even the walls listened.

  And then there was my sister. If my brother was the golden child of logic and reason, my sister was the queen of eloquence. She bagged runner-up in a national science seminar, a handful of state-level prizes, and, if we’re being honest, probably invented the concept of “winning.” She could argue her way out of anything and sound like she was quoting Shakespeare while doing it. Her debate skills were so polished, they practically had a certificate of authenticity.

  And then... there was me.

  The “umm” and “uhh” expert. The one whose idea of a successful debate was remembering at least half of my script. The one who’d stand in front of the crowd, lose all sense of time, and manage to make the simplest points sound like brain surgery. While my siblings racked up trophies and accolades, I was lucky if I didn’t leave the stage with my face on fire from embarrassment.

  But my mom was convinced I had the potential to continue the family legacy. “If they can do it, so can you!” she’d say, her tone brimming with optimism, as if public speaking were some sort of genetic inheritance passed down through generations—completely unaware of the fact that public speaking made me feel like a deer caught in headlights—except the deer probably had a better chance of survival.

  In her mind, all I needed was a little practice, and I’d be dazzling audiences just like my siblings. I, on the other hand, knew that my chances of becoming a public-speaking prodigy were about as likely as me winning a gold medal in synchronized swimming (spoiler alert: I can't swim).

  But every time I hesitated or expressed doubt, my mom would reassure me with an unwavering belief that one day, I’d stand at the podium with the grace of a seasoned orator. “Think about it!” she’d say, eyes wide with excitement. “You’ll be just like your brother—confident, poised, persuasive!”

  I’d smile, nod, and try not to imagine myself fainting on stage.

  Debate day was always a nightmare. The moment I received the topic, I could feel my pulse quicken. Participants were given an entire hour to prepare, which for most kids was plenty of time to assemble coherent thoughts, craft compelling arguments, and maybe even rehearse in front of a mirror. For me? It might as well have been five minutes. My mind would go into overdrive, like a hamster running on a wheel, desperately trying to string together points that made any sense. But more often than not, I’d just stare blankly at my notes, wondering how on Earth people managed to talk for five straight minutes without forgetting their own name.

  Meanwhile, my more prepared peers were already scribbling out outlines, bullet points, and punchy opening lines. I would stare at my page, unsure whether I was about to make a groundbreaking argument or accidentally declare my love for the person sitting across from me (a possible strategy, but probably not one to employ in a formal debate).

  Every time, without fail, I'd feel like the clock was ticking faster, like I was in some sort of twisted version of a game show where the buzzer would go off, and I’d be left standing there, mouth agape, with nothing to say but, “Uh… yeah. I think… uh… my first point is, um…”

  One particular competition still haunts me to this day. The topic was “Technology: Boon or Bane?” My mother’s face lit up when she heard it, as if fate itself had handed me an easy win. “This is perfect!” she exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement. “Just talk about mobile phones, computers, and the internet. You’ve got this!”

  Her confidence in me was both inspiring and terrifying. She saw me, in that moment, as the next great debater. I saw myself as a deer in the headlights, staring down the oncoming truck of public humiliation. But I couldn’t back out now. The clock was ticking down, and I had no choice but to throw myself into the abyss of my own disorganized thoughts.

  So, there I was, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, desperately trying to make sense of my jumbled ideas. “Mobile phones… boon because… uh… they connect us? Bane because… they distract us?” The lines on my page looked like the ramblings of a madman on a caffeine binge, and I wasn’t sure if I was writing a debate or a grocery list. “Do I mention social media? Do I talk about the rise of robots? What do I do?!”

  My mind was spiraling, and with only seconds left, I realized I had no clear structure. My notes looked like a crime scene—a crime against coherence, to be exact—but there was no time to revise. The buzzer sounded, and it was my turn. I stood up, legs shaking, feeling like I was about to walk the plank into a sea of judgment.

  When my turn came, I walked up to the stage, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it. My palms were sweaty, my mouth dry, and I could feel my legs shaking beneath me. But hey, I was here, and I had to say something. I started off strong—or at least I thought I did.

  “Technology is a boon… uh… and sometimes a bane… because, umm… it helps us… but also doesn’t?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Smooth, right? Not at all. But there was no going back now. I could feel my mom’s laser-like glare from the audience, her eyes practically screaming, “What are you saying?!” I tried to block it out, but panic hit me like a ton of bricks. I had no script, no structure, just the raw, unfiltered terror of speaking in front of an audience.

  Panicking, I switched gears, deciding to improvise. After all, what was the worst that could happen? (Spoiler: A lot.)

  “Take mobile phones, for example. They let us… call people. But also… they distract us from studying. And computers—they, uh… have a lot of… buttons? Which can be confusing. And the internet… well… it’s both good and bad, depending on… how you use it?”

  I could feel the silence in the room, thick and heavy, like everyone was waiting for something profound to come out of my mouth. But nothing was coming. My words hung in the air like an awkward fart. I desperately searched for something—anything—to save me, but all I could think about was how much I just wanted to vanish.

  The audience stared at me, their faces a mix of confusion and pity. I could practically hear the collective thought running through their heads: What did we just witness? My mom buried her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling, either from frustration or secondhand embarrassment—maybe both. And then, the unthinkable happened: I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence.

  “Umm… unnn… so, yeah… technology is… good? And bad. Thank you.”

  I stood there, frozen, like a deer caught in headlights—except instead of an oncoming car, it was a sea of judgmental eyes. The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear a pin drop, which, in hindsight, was probably the loudest thing in that room. I could feel every inch of my face burning red as I awkwardly shuffled to the side and practically bolted off the stage.

  The rebuke came almost immediately. “What were you even talking about up there? Buttons? Really?!” My mom hissed under her breath, her voice low but sharp enough to cut glass.

  I could barely make eye contact with her as I slunk into my seat, hoping the earth would just open up and swallow me whole. But no such luck. The other participants, of course, overheard everything. Some looked sympathetic, their faces soft with understanding, while others barely suppressed their laughter—some of it outright snickering. The latter made me want to crawl under my desk and stay there forever.

  Now come to another one of those debates where my mom was practically buzzing with anticipation. The topic this time was a real winner: “Are genetically modified organisms (GMOs) a sustainable solution to the challenges climate change poses to global agriculture?”

  Now, you might think, That’s a tough topic for a 12-year-old. And you'd be right. But in my mother’s eyes, I was the chosen one—the debater of the future, ready to grapple with the complexities of science and agriculture. So, there I was, with my glasses adjusted, clearing my throat, and trying to look more confident than I felt.

  "Good afternoon, everyone," I began, fully aware that the audience’s collective expectations were probably higher than my ability to string together coherent thoughts. "Today, I’m going to talk about the role of genetically modified organisms—GMOs—in helping agriculture adapt to climate change. This is a serious issue, because as temperatures rise and weather becomes more unpredictable, farmers are struggling to grow crops like they used to."

  I could see nods of approval. I had started strong, I thought. But little did I know, I was about to spiral into a sea of confusion and random analogies.

  "Now, GMOs are plants that scientists have changed to make them stronger," I continued, feeling the tension rising in my chest. "Like, they can survive heat, drought, or insects better than normal plants. It’s kind of like giving the plants... tiny invisible armor. Not actual armor, of course, that’d be weird—unless it was biodegradable... anyway—"

  At this point, I was already floundering, realizing I was so deep in the weeds of my own awkwardness that there was no way out. I glanced at my notecards to steady myself but only managed to make things worse.

  "So, some people are worried GMOs might be dangerous, but they’re actually tested a lot. Like, more than my school lunch. And nobody’s mutated yet—at least not on purpose."

  The crowd stared at me, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned for my well-being. I paused awkwardly, realizing that had absolutely no relevance to the topic at hand.

  "What I mean is, they’re safe. Mostly. Probably. And helpful!" I tried to recover, my words growing faster as I rushed to make sense of the mess I was creating. "They can grow in harsh conditions, which means we can keep feeding people even if the weather gets worse. Like if there’s a drought or if the sun gets too close. Not that the sun is coming closer... unless... is it?"

  I chuckled nervously. Yeah, that was a real winner of a thought. My face was now the shade of a tomato, and I could feel the sweat starting to trickle down my back.

  "Anyway," I said, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "GMOs are not evil. They're just... smart plants. Like if broccoli went to college. And climate change is a huge problem, so maybe we should focus on solving that first before we argue about whether corn has been to a lab."

  At this point, I had completely lost track of the argument. I had made no solid point, no coherent structure. But I managed to finish my statement, almost like a defiant little warrior who had just been pelted with confusing thoughts.

  "Thank you."

  And with that, I dashed off the stage, half-praying for the floor to swallow me up, half-wishing I could take back every word that had just escaped my mouth.

  The judges’ questions were, without a doubt, the hardest part of the whole debacle. After my disaster of a speech, I wasn’t even sure I was qualified to answer any questions, but I had to give it a shot. What followed was an exercise in desperation disguised as confidence.

  The first judge, a kindly looking man with glasses, asked, “You’ve suggested that GMOs can adapt to changing climate conditions, but can you explain what specific genetic modifications are being made to crops, and how these modifications actually help plants survive in extreme weather?”

  I felt the weight of the question like a brick on my chest. Specific genetic modifications? What even are those?

  I took a deep breath, trying to pull something, anything, from the depths of my brain.

  “Okay, so... the modifications, um, they make plants... stronger? Like, they give them superhero powers, I guess. Some can survive, like, droughts or heat waves, which is great. I think they, uh... get more... water-resistant? Or maybe heat-resistant? Kind of like how people wear sunscreen in the summer, but for plants.”

  There it was—the awkward comparison I should have kept to myself. The judges broke into laughter, some of them even clutching their stomachs. I’d hoped my answer would be met with admiration for my "creativity," but all I got was pure comedy gold.

  Then came the next judge, who was practically giggling at my previous answer, but still asked with a hint of curiosity, “You argue that GMOs can help mitigate the effects of climate change. However, do you think that focusing on genetically modified crops might divert attention from other sustainable agricultural practices, like crop rotation or organic farming?”

  Crop rotation—now we were talking. I knew a little about that. I tried to muster all my mental energy to string together something coherent.

  “Right, yeah, crop rotation, that’s like when you grow different plants in different spots to make the soil better. So, um... yeah, that’s a good idea too. But if we only focus on GMOs, then maybe we forget about things like... maybe letting plants just take a break sometimes? Like, plant vacations. But I think both things can work together, right? GMOs and crop rotation can be... best friends?”

  By the time I finished, the judge was barely holding it together. The room erupted in laughter, and I could feel my cheeks burning. I had no idea what I was saying anymore, but I was too far gone to stop myself.

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, the next judge asked the dreaded question: “Can you tell me how much GMOs are we using today? Like, what is the ratio of GMO crops to natural crops?”

  I froze. My brain was a blank slate. The answer should have been somewhere in my brain, but it wasn’t. I had no clue, but I remembered my mom’s constant advice: “Be confident in your answer.”

  Without a second thought, I blurted, “It’s 1:9. GMO to natural crops.”

  The judge smiled at me kindly, as if he were patting me on the head for being brave. “Well, actually, the use of GMOs is way more than that,” he said with a gentle laugh. “The ratio is much closer to 1:3 in most places.”

  But I wasn’t going to back down now. I had already dug myself into a hole, so why not go deeper?

  “No, sir,” I said with an exaggerated nod, puffing my chest out for added emphasis. “You don’t know. It’s 1:9.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence before the judges burst into laughter again. I stood there, still holding on to my confidence like a lifeline, even though I had just confidently made up a random ratio.

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