One week, packed with assemblies and long hours on the road, one of our team members fell ill. He was our go-to for a specific topic, someone who had honed that message like an artisan shaping wood. With barely twenty minutes’ notice, he had to leave, and I was left to cover his part. I scrambled to prepare but felt the weight of inadequacy settling in. Truthfully, I think it might have been my worst day on stage.

I told the students about my tics. My physical and audible tics, which I’ve had my whole life, have often been the elephant in the room. They’re obvious to anyone who spends time around me. 

Growing up, I dreamed of speaking to audiences, but people would tell me, “You’ll never make it as a speaker with those tics.” Their words stung, but I didn’t let them define me. I shared how, despite the doubts, I’ve spoken to about 750,000 people over the past twelve years. My tics didn’t stop me; they became part of my story.

As I wrapped up, the gym quieted, the usual rustling and chatter replaced with a stillness I hadn’t expected.

He was a giant of a young man—at least 6’7” and built like a tank, moving toward me fast and with purpose. Honestly, I braced myself; he didn’t look like he planned to slow down. But as he reached me, he threw his massive arms around me and broke down.

We stood there for a while, his sobs heavy against my shoulder. I told him he wasn’t alone, that his tics didn’t have to dictate his dreams. I told him the labels others tried to put on him didn’t have to stick. When he finally let go, his face had transformed—tears gave way to a grin so wide it seemed to light up the gym.

It’s easy to focus on polished words, rehearsed stories, and perfectly executed assemblies. But sometimes, it’s the imperfections—the cracks in the surface—that let the light shine through. That day, I thought I had failed. Instead, my vulnerability became a lifeline for a boy who needed to hear it.

From the moment we arrived at the first school, there were challenges. Miscommunications about dates, missing paperwork, new leadership at some schools who hadn’t been informed of our arrival—it felt like everything that could go wrong did. Our well-rehearsed team, which had weathered many events before, found itself scrambling to fix issues on the fly. Each day brought new roadblocks, and by the time we hit the halfway mark of the week, exhaustion began to creep in.

But despite the chaos, we pressed on. Each time we stepped into a gymnasium filled with hundreds of students, we remembered why we were there. We knew the power of our message and believed that even on the most challenging days, someone out there needed to hear it. We’d catch glimmers of hope in the students’ eyes, watch as they nodded along with the stories of resilience and hope, and feel a small spark of energy to keep us going.

By Friday, we were physically and emotionally drained. Twenty-two assemblies in one week—it was no small feat. We were tired, running through the motions, tearing down equipment as quickly as possible just to make it to the next venue. We had become efficient, like a machine, moving through the necessary tasks with practiced precision. But under that surface, we were worn out, questioning if all the effort had been worth it.

Then, at the final assembly, something unexpected happened. Matt Moore, our musical guest, walked over to me, a strange expression on his face. In his hand, he held a small bundle. "This girl came looking for us," he said quietly. "She handed me these razor blades."

For a moment, I didn’t understand. But as he explained, the full weight of what he was saying hit me like a wave. The girl had come up to him after the assembly and handed him the blades, saying, “I don’t need these anymore.” Her voice trembled with emotion as she thanked us, telling him that for the first time in a long time, she saw her own worth. She had come to the assembly feeling invisible, burdened by her own pain, but something in our message had pierced through the darkness. We had shown her that her life had meaning, that she mattered.

In an instant, everything changed. The exhaustion that had weighed us down all week vanished. We stopped what we were doing and gathered as a team, standing in awe of the moment. Here was this brave, young girl, offering up a symbol of her pain—a symbol of the battle she had been fighting within herself. And now, she was choosing life. She was choosing hope.

We stood in silence for a moment, letting it sink in. The weight of those razor blades, so small yet so significant, was a reminder of why we do this. Through all the missteps, the frustrations, and the exhaustion, we had reached someone. We had made a difference.

As we packed up the last of our equipment, our hearts felt lighter, our spirits renewed. What had seemed like a week full of obstacles had actually been a week full of opportunity. We left that school knowing that, in the midst of our fatigue and frustration, we had made an impact.