Third grade photograph, Bruce back row, third from right. Mrs Tozier needed me to take hyperactivity medicine (methedrine) before she would let me into the class.
Show and Tell Lessons From the Dunce Chair
Standing in front of the classroom during “Show and Tell” was one of my earliest opportunities to share something about myself. Back in first, second, and third grade, however, my enthusiasm far outpaced my preparedness. Most days, I would take my place in front of the class with nothing in hand, just eager for the chance to be seen. It wasn’t about showcasing something incredible; it was about the space to say, “Here I am.”
But for every ounce of courage it took to stand there, there was a nagging weight from those fleeting moments at the dunce chair. For those who aren’t familiar, the dunce chair wasn’t just a piece of furniture; it was a symbol of inadequacy and judgment. Even now, as I step into different stages of life, I can hear the whispers of those insecurities in the background. Yet, something within me presses forward, offering to share what little I have—with anyone willing to listen.
Today, I have something to say. And classmates, here I am once again.
Doubt is a sneaky companion. It doesn’t shout at you; it whispers in subtle tones that make you second-guess yourself.
Back then, in that classroom, I didn’t know it, but holding onto those few moments in front of my peers despite having “nothing to show” was my first act of defiance against those inner doubters. When I think back on the experience, I realize it was never about the object I brought to show (or the lack of one). It was about being visible amid feelings of unworthiness.
Even now, as an adult, some days feel like an updated version of those same “Show and Tell” sessions. Whether it is sharing an idea with Substack, Facebook, or my blog site, or simply opening up in a conversation, there’s always that little voice saying, “Why would anyone care?” Though the scenarios have changed, the feeling is eerily familiar.
But here’s the breakthrough I’ve discovered after years of following that inner voice of doubt—I don’t have to banish it completely to stand firm. I just need to learn to speak louder than it.
Growth doesn’t come packaged with immediate confidence. It arrives piece by piece, lesson by lesson.
What’s fascinating to me now is being able to see those early emotions in a new light. When I stood in front of the class, unsure of myself yet desperate to be heard, I was learning resilience. And every time I thought back to the so-called “dunce chair,” I was unintentionally framing a conversation around worth, visibility, and growth.
The term “dunce” itself represents a societal label for failure or inadequacy. For me, it symbolizes the inner critic that exists within all of us. But distance and perspective have taught me this critic rarely gets it right. It’s simply a wayward compass, one that doesn’t always point to truth.
With time, I realized few people in that classroom probably even remembered whether or not I had something meaningful to “show.” What they likely remembered was that I showed up.
Because isn’t that really why we’re all here? To show up for ourselves, even when the audience (or inner critics) might say we’re ill-equipped or unworthy?
Here’s the truth I’ve uncovered through the years of reliving those moments in my own head—the thing I “have to show” isn’t necessarily a tangible object. What matters more is the act of presenting myself, faults and all, and saying, “I belong here.”
Sharing our self, no matter how clumsy or imperfect it feels, is one of life’s greatest gifts we can give. Whether it’s standing before classmates, colleagues, or the world at large, showing up despite inner doubts is one of the bravest things we’ll ever do.
And while there will always be doubters (both within and outside ourself), our growth comes from learning not to shrink in their presence. Growth is found in seeing beyond the labels and limitations placed on us.
It’s about recognizing that the “dunce chair” was never truly strapped to me. It was simply a temporary resting place for someone still learning to believe in my own voice.
Now, I’ll leave you with this simple call to action.
Think back to your own version of “Show and Tell.” Maybe it was a literal classroom experience, or perhaps it was any moment in life where you shared something vulnerable yet unsure of its reception.
What’s holding you back from presenting yourself today? And what, if anything, would you share if there were no dunce chairs to worry about?
Classmates, the stage is ours.
Stand tall, because what we have to share matters—even if it’s just you and me.
