The Terror is in the Room

A dear friend and client gifts me second-row seats to see Good Night, and Good Luck on Broadway, starring George Clooney. In the opening scenes, Edward R. Murrow and his team gather to debate whether or not to take on “the Junior Senator from Wisconsin,” Joseph McCarthy.

We’re in the midst of the 1950’s red scare and tensions are high.

We meet colleagues who, in quiet confidence, reveal they’ve been forced to sign loyalty oaths—attesting they had never participated in, or had any connection to, anything remotely resembling communism. One of the characters reflects on the weight of that moment and says:

“The terror is in the room.”

There it is. Spoken onstage. A phrase that captures exactly how I’ve been feeling lately.

It’s one thing to experience that terror through television or our phones. But in this moment, the terror has forced its way not just into public spaces—but, frighteningly, into the most private of rooms. Not just our conference rooms, but also our classrooms, our bathrooms, and our bedrooms.

My dear friends, I’ve been wrestling—deeply—with what it means to be Fearless right now. This moment feels different. It hits different.

So as we gathered the 31st cohort of our Fearless Fire program, I wondered: How would the pressures of the outside world shape the room?

The usual suspects were there—fears of getting it wrong, looking foolish, not being loved, being too much or not enough. These are the fears that show up in every public speaking space.

But would the terror of the current moment creep in quietly slowly pulling the oxygen out of the room? Or would it hurl itself into the space, blowing the door off its hinges?

What happened instead was extraordinary.

Every single person in that room—across their intersectional identities as women, BIPOC, and/or members of the LGBTQ+ community—met the moment with something that looked a lot like . . . fearlessness.

And they didn’t do it alone. They did it through the combined power of their personal conviction and the support and love of their fellow speakers, their coaches, and the invited audience.

This past Wednesday, when they stood and shared their original signature talks, they didn’t just showcase the breadth of their thought leadership. They courageously, unapologetically revealed their stories.

They spoke truths the world needs to hear:

• Designing adult learning experiences that work for everyone.
• Teaching women and LGBTQ+ folks how to defend themselves against patriarchy and rape culture.
• Declaring the birthright of queer people (and all people) to flourish.
• Reimagining the language we use around aging.
• Creating workplaces where people are truly seen, supported, and strengthened.
• And empowering Black and Brown folks to liberate themselves from the chokehold of corporate culture—professionally, financially, and psychologically.

The magic I witnessed was this: The terror may be in the room . . . but so is the FIRE.

Each of them transformed fear—the personal, the political, the existential—into fuel. Fuel for the FIRE they brought to the stage.

I often use the metaphor of a Lighthouse when working with clients and thought leaders: Hone your craft and message, and then blast it consistently—through clear nights, fog, or thunderstorms—drawing your ideal audience to be inspired and transformed by your brilliance.

And yet, for some, that image may feel too exposed right now. Too risky.

Maybe in this moment, you can be the lighthouse—standing tall on the promontory, beaming your message LOUD and PROUD, no matter the climate.
Maybe you’re carrying a lantern close to your chest—its glow just bright enough to light the next step forward.

Maybe it’s a candle in the window—a quiet signal to the world that you are here, that hope and love live here.

Maybe you’re a firefly—small, soft, and shimmering. Lighting up the dark in pulses. Not constant, but consistent.

However you’re tending your light right now, please know:
We see you. We feel you. And we HONOR YOUR COURAGE.

Please remember that we at Fearless Communicators remain a safe harbor.

The good trouble—and the FEARLESS WERK—continues.

If this message stirred something in you, I’d love to know.

How are you meeting this moment?
What does tending your light look like right now?

 

Fearlessly yours,

 

Eduardo Placer