This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Erin Keating, an executive analyst for Cox Automotive. It has been edited for length and clarity.
People should scare themselves. In public.
I tested that theory out in my mid-40s by taking five seasons of improv classes at the DC Improv Comedy Club. My goal was not to become a comedian — I wanted to take on a challenge that I could easily fail at.
And to add to the pressure, I had to perform in front of my family.
I work as an executive analyst in the auto industry at Cox Automotive. I distill data to explain the industry’s market dynamics to automakers, dealership groups, lenders, and journalists. The material I cover can quickly get boring if I’m not careful.
Some of those conversations happen in small rooms, others happen in high-pressure settings: on stages in front of hundreds or thousands of people, on live television, at product unveilings, in podcasts, you name it.
I also consider myself an introvert. I didn’t always feel so comfortable in front of people — and I certainly haven’t always been the funniest person in the room.
Getting on the stage
At my first major corporate presentation, I couldn’t stop sweating. My colleagues said I was good, but I was talking too fast. Their feedback was basically, “You did fine. Slow down.”
I improved over time and got less sweaty when talking in front of people. There was still more I could learn.
I decided to take the improv classes in 2018 because, honestly, I was a little bit bored. I had just left a marketing communications job and was trying to figure out what to do next.
I knew I liked talking: I was hosting a successful podcast about books, but I wanted to be better at having conversations. Loving to talk is definitely not the same as being a good conversationalist.
The classes with a cast of characters…
So, I joined my first class. I was there with a biology teacher, a German woman who was really funny, an older woman who had done a ton of onstage acting, and a handful of people (like me) who were nervous about participating. The majority of us stuck it out for our five consecutive seasons.
At the beginning, I fought against my preconception that I had to be funny.
I remember playing a game called “Die, not today,” where we had to mime throwing a hammer or a spear at each other. If the object was heading your way, you had to come up with how you’d survive the attack on the spot. Most people just tried to shield themselves, but one woman staged a dramatic scene where a spear nearly struck her nose. She grabbed it at the last second, saving her (improv-ed) life. It was amazing.
… And their lessons
Improv is really about paying attention to what another person is giving you. You have to build upon the scenario they set up, a principle called “yes, and.” You accept the premise someone introduces, and add something to it.
You also learn about status. In a scene, you might be the character driving the action. In your next, you could be supporting the other person’s arc. Scenes are most interesting when you watch people respond to each other and create together through those statuses. Some of the worst scenes are when two people are just trying to compete to be the funniest.
All of that applies to work and your life more than you might realize.
Before I speak at big conferences, I talk to people in the audience to understand the energy in the room and what is on their minds. I don’t like working from a script. It can get too prescriptive and keep you from responding to the people in front of you. I’m listening for the thought that is begging for a “yes, and.”
The same goes for one-on-one conversations. When someone talks, improv has taught me to follow the unexpected and respond to what was actually said.
Those skills also matter a lot for office politics. Those classes taught me to recognize an awkward moment, assess the reaction, and apologize if I misread it. I am now comfortable saying, “Thank you for receiving that with the intent it was given,” when I know I don’t express myself well.
The final big lesson was authenticity. Near the end of my third improv season, I jumped into a scene and used the New York Jewish-grandmother voice I’d always been able to pull off (do not ask me to do other accents — even when I think I sound like a señorita, I always revert back to that Eastern European drawl.)
I’d avoided that voice because I thought, “This is not acting, I’m not supposed to do that.” But for that scene, it was exactly what my partner needed. My classmate asked me why I had never done it.
That voice was a breakthrough for me. I realized I could bring my whole self to that stage.
Onto the next challenges
Human skills are becoming more important, especially as AI changes how we work.
Sure, technical skills will remain important. But I think people who can listen, relate to others, read a room, and recover gracefully from an uncomfortable moment will have a real advantage.
Those are human skills that you can’t fake by memorizing a script.
So, I suggest doing the thing that scares you: get onstage, take a class, give the speech. You may sweat, and you may talk too fast. But you’ll get through it — and learn something about how you show up for the people around you.
I plan to keep testing that theory myself. My first stand-up comedy class starts on Tuesday.
And I’m terrified.
