When I was in ninth grade, I was chosen to recite the Declaration of Independence in a high school patriotic play. I had the whole thing memorized. Every word. Every pause. I had practiced it until it lived in my bones.
What I didn’t know — and wouldn’t discover until later — was that my zipper was down, and my shirt was hanging out.
The entire time.
I stood there under the lights and delivered the Declaration flawlessly. Not a word missed. Not a line dropped. And the audience laughed — not because I failed, but because something human broke through the formality of the moment.
I didn’t run off the stage.
I didn’t freeze.
I finished.
Years later, that’s what my classmates remember. Not the mistake. Not the embarrassment. They remember that I stood there, spoke something weighty and true, and stayed.
I’ve learned to accept that moment — and even to appreciate it — because it taught me something early in life: the power of the message is not undone by human imperfection.