“Rise to the occasion,” she said.
She didn’t mean it as some inspiring, let’s-all-sing-Kumbaya-in-a-group-hug kind of encouragement.
She meant: quit your whining.
She meant: life’s not fair, and you might as well learn that now.
“She” was my junior college speech professor. And yes, she was talking to me—and two equally horrified classmates.
We were clearly scheduled to give our speeches several days later—but she announced it would be today. Her directive felt unfair and suffocating—like having your Mt. Everest training canceled the week before the climb. Giving a speech or climbing Everest—same level of terror, different gear.
The time we were supposed to have? That was for perfecting. Gaining confidence. Our chance to plant a flag on the tippy-top peak for an A+.
I delivered my speech and earned a lackluster B. Hardly my best—and a pockmark on an otherwise perfect report card.
The letdown was real.
But life lessons outlast grades.
Her directive served me well over the years. Challenging professors—the tough ones students try to avoid but sometimes get stuck with—are the ones who truly prepare you for life. If you’re lucky, they don’t just teach the subject; they teach you life skills.
I never met a student who wanted to take a speech class. Most feared it and saved it for last. But I’ve always liked to tackle tough stuff head-on—get it over with. I also didn’t want to spend the rest of college dreading every class presentation. That felt daunting. I wanted to feel confident, and I assumed the class would help.
It did.
In the end?
I actually made public speaking my career.
And I used that idiom from that moment on. “Rise to the occasion” became a kind of compass I’ve relied on ever since.
Rise to the Occasion
Like when I crafted four funeral services for my mother and father, who passed within seven weeks of each other.
I held a service for each of them in our hometown and another 300 miles north. Divorced decades earlier, they were buried in their family plots in adjacent cities. Four funerals in eight weeks.
I wrote eulogies, planned services, made burial arrangements, created programs (we didn’t use a funeral home nor are we religiously affiliated), coordinated military honors, organized food, published newspaper announcements, wrote emails, ordered death certificates, managed out-of-town visitors—all while working and grieving, single-handedly.
Hindsight shows me I didn’t have to do all those things. But I rose to the occasion. Pushed through. I did my best—not the best, my best. That’s how I learned to live with the least regret.
Rise to the occasion.
Like when I helped my father-in-law through critical health care and hospice. Nothing summons courage like caring for someone you love at the end of their life.
Rise to the occasion.
Like when I handled tough gigs at work, such as having a difficult or crucial conversation with an employee.
Rise to the occasion.
Like the Friday night that felt like any other, until Ron and I took in our two young nephews—and reshaped the shape of our family.
Rise to the occasion.
Like when I stick to a tough-love mantra.
A tough-love response isn’t easy, especially when you love someone. You can help—but you aren’t, on purpose. That’s tough. But it’s also love. Because you can’t change people so they’ll make wiser choices. And helping them forever doesn’t actually help. Nothing changes until you get out of their way. Sometimes people only help themselves when no other help is available. True love can be not helping. And it’s tough not to help.
Rise to the occasion.
Like when I served as Juror #1 in a murder trial that captured three weeks of my life.
As Juror #1, I was seated behind and to the side of the judge, who naturally faces the audience—not the jury.ª
Complicating an already tense situation, I could hardly hear the court proceedings. I had to gather up all my courage to tell the bailiff (who informed the judge) that I couldn’t hear well enough. I felt mortified.
They provided me a hearing device—a large, cumbersome contraption the size of a small book.
It was worth it. I needed to hear every word floating in that windowless, crowded courtroom.
Later, we—the jury, all strangers to each other—huddled closely around a too-large table in a too-small space with a bathroom one foot away. I challenged assumptions and stood firm on what I couldn’t agree to.
After three weeks of sequestered deliberations, we returned to the courtroom. The prosecutor practically snarled at us for our verdict: GUILTY.
He tried to humiliate us—forcing each of us to stand, one by one, in a courtroom packed with reporters and split between the loved ones of the defendant and the victims—and declare the word “GUILTY” aloud, looking directly at the defendant. Individually. No hiding behind our “jury” collective.
I thought this unnecessary and cruel. While I had experience speaking in tense situations under scrutiny, some of my fellow jurors seemingly did not. Even then, the situation tasked me to the extreme.
One male juror’s face beamed red and dripped with sweat. I feared he might have a heart attack. A young woman juror held back tears. Another trembled.
I swear I could hear our collective hearts thumping in the silence.
After we were dismissed into the hallway (“Thank you very much for your service, you may leave”), we lingered, freed from burden and constraint, but not quite ready to re-enter the world.
I think we needed a moment to shift from the surreal to the real.
Why didn’t we flee?
We were comrades now—strangers just three weeks earlier—who’d been through something profound. Only we knew this particular battle. A life had been at stake. And after three weeks of get-to-know-you-better lunches and raw, emotional debate—because you can’t keep your guard up that long—we knew we’d never see each other again.
I stepped into my crisis communicator role and connected with nearly every juror. We all lingered in the hallway—stood, stared. Then we chatted, hugged, shook hands—or simply threw a nod.
That nod said everything:
That was tough.
I wish you well.
Thanks for your effort.
Nice knowing you.
I know how hard this was.
I felt proud to serve—not just the system, but with the individuals involved. I followed the law exactly as the judge instructed, which sometimes worked in the defendant’s favor and sometimes in the victim’s.
Technically, there were neither. From the jury’s standpoint, there are only the facts.
The defendant was ultimately sentenced to 40 years in prison.
The Weight of a Phrase
The phrase “rise to the occasion” carries a whiff of scolding.
In tough moments, fear and overwhelm make us hesitate.
But then suddenly, it’s clear what to do:
Do what’s right.
Trudge through.
Life isn’t fair. So what?
That’s exactly how it was handed to me all those years ago by my professor. No excuses.
Still, we all know—and there are a zillion studies to prove it—that most people fear public speaking more than death.
“There are two types of speakers: those that are nervous, and those that are liars.”
—Mark Twain
I’d add that speaking in front of peers is even harder than speaking in front of strangers.
I’ve risen to a few tough occasions, sure—but everyone faces their own Everest. Many rise under circumstances far more difficult than mine. For me, this phrase is simply a reminder to step up—and that I’m capable of more than I imagine.
When in your life have you risen to the occasion? 🌄
❦
ª [As a former sound engineering student, I can attest: this is poor design. Courtrooms are ill-designed. The audience should sit where the jury does. The jury should be front and center for they are part of the mechanism of justice.]