Losing Everything.
Finding Purpose.
My TEDx Experience

I had to lose everything before I finally understood who I am and what I am here to do. Clarity does not arrive when life is comfortable. It arrives when the ground falls away and you are forced to see yourself without the armour.

TEDx was supposed to be the moment everything came together. Instead, it almost became the moment I walked away.

I nearly cancelled the talk. Not once. Not twice. Over and over again. Personally and professionally, it felt easier to pull the plug. Looking back, I can see that it had to unfold exactly the way it did. I needed the mess. I needed the doubt. I needed the discomfort to expose the parts of me I still had not dealt with.

A week before the event, during dress rehearsals, it hit me with full force. I froze. Completely. It became real in a way I was not prepared for. Those old feelings returned. The self-doubt. The imposter voice. The version of me that truly believed he would never amount to much. It all came rushing back like it had been waiting for its moment.

For the next few days, I bounced between pulling out and pushing through. If I quit, I knew I would let people down. If I continued, I knew I would have to face the parts of myself I preferred to outrun.

In the end, I showed up.

On the day, the nerves were heavy. Not butterflies. More like a weight in the gut. I paced. My heart raced. I watched the other speakers walk on stage. Every one of them brilliant, composed, powerful. I was proud of them. And I was intimidated by them. It only turned up the pressure.

Then it was my turn.

I walked to the centre. Looked down. And for a moment, I told myself, “You can’t do this.”

Then I lifted my head and said the words that have carried me through most of my life. “F** it.” And yes, sorry Karen.

I started speaking and found my rhythm. The nerves loosened. My confidence flickered back to life. I thought, “I am actually doing this.” Seconds later, I stumbled. I missed a couple of my favourite lines. I fumbled a transition. Twice my voice nearly cracked.

“Do not cry.” That was the only order running through my mind.

Being on stage is a strange thing. Time stretches. Every moment feels longer than it is. Then suddenly, it is over. And you are left wondering what you said, how you said it, or whether any of it landed.

But I do remember the aftermath. The warmth. The genuine support. The compassion from the other speakers. Not shallow praise. Real connection. Real kindness. The kind I am not used to receiving. For that, I am grateful.

Then the waiting started.

In the WhatsApp group, everyone celebrated their videos going live. They were buzzing. I was genuinely happy for them. But mine, and one other, were held back. They needed to check the data. A reasonable request. But logic does nothing to quiet the old voice.

“See. What were you thinking? You do not belong here. Street smarts and observational humour have no place in this space, you idiot.”

So I did what was asked. A minute-by-minute, line-by-line transcript. Fully cited. Every reference included. It felt like another test. Another doorway back into that old identity.

Throughout the entire process, I leaned on a Stoic principle. Expect the worst and keep moving. Do not get attached to the outcome. Do the work and carry on. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I realised something important. I actually practise what I preach. The L.I.O.N. State Framework did its thing. Leadership. Integrity. Ownership. Nurture. Not just the model I teach. The model I live. It kept me steady when the old identity tried to drag me back.

I carried the mission forward.

Just as I was about to send the final draft of my campaign, my phone buzzed. Marcus.

“All checks out, Rik. Your talk is now live.”

My first words. “FFS.”

Relief does strange things to a man.

And here is the truth. I have never been prouder of a failure that became a first step. It was imperfect. Messy. Human. Exactly what it needed to be. And it was mine.

Nothing worth doing is ever simple. Nothing meaningful is ever straightforward. Nothing that changes you will ever allow you to stay comfortable. That is life. It is meant to challenge you. Break you open. Force you to rebuild with intention.

And I like it that way.

TEDx reminded me of something I had forgotten. You do not need perfection to lead. You need honesty. You need courage. You need to stand there, even when your voice shakes, and trust that the message matters more than the mistakes.

I did not deliver the perfect talk. Good. That story would have been a lie. What I delivered was real. And real connects far deeper than flawless ever will.

I walked into TEDx with doubt. I walked out with clarity. Not because it went smoothly. It didn’t. But because I stayed in the fight when the easiest thing in the world would have been to walk away.

I had to lose everything to find myself. TEDx reminded me that I am still building. Still evolving. Still writing the next chapter.

And now I understand something with absolute certainty. Failure is not the end. Failure is the doorway.

And I am walking through it every single day.