When I was in law school I used to do something kind of controversial.

I was a night student. That meant I commuted nearly an hour to work, worked a full eight-hour day, then went to classes five nights a week — followed by the commute home. I did that for four years.

I tried to keep up with the reading, but deadlines and life meant I didn’t always get it right. 

Being a thrifty student, I bought used textbooks (no online versions back then). Those books were riddled with evidence of bygone students — scribbling, dog-eared pages, micro-tears, but most importantly: highlighted sections. 

Those highlights became the foundation for my “I’m not prepared days.”

Law school classes, as you may or may not know, are taught in a Socratic style. Professors don’t just tell you the answers — they expect conversation. They ask open-ended questions designed to encourage dialogue and critical thinking.

Which is exactly as terrifying as it sounds.

Some professors called on us in alphabetical order. In those classes, it was easy to know when you needed to be prepared. Other professors called on students at random. Some allowed you to pass when you weren’t ready. Others required you to admit you were unprepared while they scribbled notes in their notebook — notes that could cost you points for not prioritizing their class on that day.

A system like this pushes students to prepare more deeply than they otherwise might. It forces you to have something to say if — or when — you’re called on.

But when you’re commuting, working full-time, studying, and trying to live the live of a young 20-something … sometimes you just aren’t prepared.

And I’m not someone who’s usually willing to admit that.

So I had a system.

If I was called on and didn’t know what to say, I never passed. Instead, I parroted whatever was highlighted in my used textbook — no matter what it said.I’d glance down, grab a highlighted sentence, and build an argument around it in real time.

I always made sure my voice was clear and loud (thank you high school debate team).
And I never wavered.

Other students looked on. Some nodded approval. Some looked confused.

More often than not, the professor would stare directly at me with a small smile — smelling blood in the water. They’d start digging. Asking variations. Twisting facts. Teasing out my lack of preparation.

Here’s the controversial part:

I’d simply repeat what I said before. 

Every. Time. 

Change the facts? I stuck with mine.
Add nuance? I stuck with my interpretation. 

Without fail, professors would eventually move on to the next student while I tried not to pass out in my seat.

This technique taught me a few things, but the most important one was this:
after awhile, the professors left me alone.

Whether they thought I was stubborn, unteachable, or simply not worth the effort didn’t really matter.
They moved on.

My now-husband, on the other hand, used a much more direct approach.

If called on and wasn’t prepared he would simply say, “Pass.”

One time, a professor responded, “I don’t allow passing in my class. Let me repeat the question.”

As the professor repeated it, I shoved my textbook toward my boyfriend, pounding my finger furiously into the highlighted sections. He glanced at the page. Then at me.

Then he said to the professor:
“Sir, you can ask again but you’re just going to get a longer pause this time.”

The oxygen was sucked out of the room by the collective gasp.

But what did the professor do?

He wrote something in his notebook… and moved on.

I tell this story now because I see the same dynamic play out constantly with my clients.

In moments of intense pressure, you actually have more options than you think.

When we flounder — rambling, apologizing, hedging, talking ourselves in circles — people feel it immediately. It makes them uneasy. Some rush in to help. Others sharpen their questions.

Either way, you’ve lost control of the moment.

Confidence does something different.
Even imperfect confidence.

When you speak clearly, take up space, and don’t retreat from your own words, you signal leadership. Not because you’re right, but because you’re steady. And steadiness buys you time, credibility, and often… mercy.

Here’s the part that surprises people:

Confidence isn’t about having the best answer.
It’s about standing calmly inside the answer you do have.

The goal isn’t to fake expertise or bulldoze a conversation. It’s to resist the instinct to collapse under pressure. You can pause. You can repeat yourself. You can say less — and say it more clearly.

That’s a skill.

And like any skill, it can be practiced.