KATE BUHLER: There I was, sitting in my usual airport lounge, drinking too much cheap Chardonnay, and I thought to myself, I need to change my life.

PIERCE McMANUS: Suddenly, it all feels very real, and it is abundantly clear that I do not belong in this room.

JOHANNA WALKER: And it seemed clear that if we went back down to the beach, that ocean would swallow us whole.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is, "On Second Thought."

What happens when you realize that you got it wrong?

Not just a tiny mistake, but something big.

A plan that you had devoted your life to, a relationship that you thought you understood.

So often we are told, push through, don't look back, but, what if the bravest thing that you can do is to actually just reconsider?

Tonight, our storytellers are going to share moments where they questioned, paused and changed course.

BUHLER: My name is Kate Buhler.

I live in the Boston area, and I am a consultant for luxury hotels and resorts around the world.

Your work is so much about helping people to feel valued in what they do.

And could you tell me, why is that so important to you?

It takes a lot of courage for anyone, especially nowadays, to go out and talk to strangers, and to, to try to make somebody have a wonderful day is actually pretty exhausting work.

So after doing it for as many years as I did, I realized that I enjoy... ...helping others navigate through their day, and helping others just remember how important and valued they are.

And I understand that you came to storytelling a little bit later in life, and I'm wondering what drew you-- what was your first experience of sharing a personal story on stage?

BUHLER: Absolutely.

During COVID, I would take a three-mile walk every day, and I would listen to different podcasts and storytelling podcasts.

And I always thought, you know, that's something I would like to try.

So as soon as the quarantines were over, I started then.

There I was, sitting in my usual airport lounge, drinking too much cheap Chardonnay, and I saw myself in a mirror.

And I thought to myself, I need to change my life.

You know, from the outside, my life looked perfect.

I had a great family, amazing friends, and a job that let me travel the world.

But on the inside, I knew something was missing.

That night, I almost missed my plane.

After a very long work day, and after too many glasses of wine-- face it, it was three-- I didn't notice that there had been a gate change, so I had to run across Miami-Dade Airport.

I don't run for anything.

But this was the last flight out to Boston, my home.

And I was going to spend the weekend with my family.

And I missed enough time with them already due to work.

I was not going to miss this plane.

So I ran for it.

And I could hear them saying, "Katherine Buhler, "your flight is going to depart.

Please check in at the gate now."

And I made it just as the doors were closing, only to find 120 people staring at me, annoyed at the delay I'd caused.

I was sweating, breathing heavy, feeling the wine, and embarrassed.

And I saw a man at the very last row had taken my aisle seat.

He was a large person, and he was balancing a bucket of chicken on his lap.

And he looked annoyed that I had actually shown up, so, I'm thinking to myself, you know what?

I deserve this.

And rather than ask him to move and cause another scene, I poured myself over him and I wedged my body between his and the wall of the plane, and I fell asleep, or passed out, whatever you want to call it, even before we had taxied down the runway.

And my last thought to myself was, "I really do need to change my life."

And all of a sudden, I woke up to a very loud bang; almost like thunder.

My face flew forward and my nose hit the seat in front of me, and my nose was bleeding down my shirt.

And the plane got dark and very, very cold.

And I could hear all the oxygen suck out of the plane with a sound, like... (imitates intaking air) And for a second, it was all quiet.

And the man next to me, his chicken bucket had flown up in the air, and bird bones and grease had fallen down on my head, and it was so disorienting.

For a second I thought we crashed.

But then the emergency lights came on, and the masks fell down from the ceiling.

And just like all the videos you don't pay attention to, the bag does not inflate, but oxygen is flowing.

And so we all put on our masks and we waited for what seemed like a long time.

But the pilot came on and he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very sorry.

"Obviously, we've lost pressure.

I don't know what else is wrong with this plane."

That was not comforting.

I found out later that a piece of the roof, some metal, had gone up from the top of the plane-- it's called metal fatigue.

Apparently, that happens.

Um, he had more news.

He said, "We are one hour over the Atlantic Ocean.

"We need to turn around and go back to Miami.

"Also, we're at 31,000 feet.

"There's no air up here, "so we need to get down to 5,000 feet very quickly, "because we only have two minutes left of oxygen in the tank."

So he said, "Hold on," and he took a very sharp left, and started descending quickly.

The pain migrated from the front of my face to my ears.

It felt very much like somebody was poking my eardrums with sharp pencils.

I held it together and it got warmer in the plane and we had oxygen, we could take our masks off.

And the man next to me gave me two paper fast food napkins, which I stuffed up my nostrils.

And actually he seemed pretty nice, although we never said a word throughout this whole ordeal.

He started to read a Bible in French by the moonlight.

I started to think we were all going to die.

So I looked out the window and I watched them dump fuel over the ocean in a silvery stream.

And I thought to myself, "Do I have any regrets?"

The regrets that came to mind, I really wished my children wouldn't grow up without a mother.

But their father is excellent, and I knew he would raise them right and that they were loved.

And I felt a little bit better.

I thought about my husband and how much I loved him and I didn't want him to be alone, but he's pretty handsome and he can cook and clean.

And I honestly thought, you know, he probably wouldn't be left alone for long.

And weirdly, that also felt comforting.

(audience laughter) So then I wondered if there was anything else I regretted.

And actually there was.

For the last eight years, I had spent most of my time trying to make rich people richer.

And I decided that if I did not die, I would spend the rest of my life trying to make regular people richer.

It's like being in a car accident, you know, how everything goes in slow motion.

But this time, instead of bracing ourselves for impact, we were hurling through the air at 400 miles an hour.

But in that long stretch, I had time to make up a business plan for myself just to distract me from what was going on.

So the plane came down for a landing.

We could see ambulances and fire trucks, just in case.

And the man next to me, we held hands, which was really nice.

And the plane came in, it was actually a non-event.

It was a simple landing, and then we got yelled at and told to get on another plane right away.

If we were injured, we could not fly.

So I pulled the napkins out of my nose and I said, "I'm fine."

And I did not want to get on that plane, but about half of us did, because my need to get home and hug my family was more important than how I was feeling a little bit afraid.

So I got on that plane and ended up coming home at 4:00 in the morning instead of 1:00 in the morning, which for that airline is basically on time.

(audience laughter) And after I hugged my family, I knew what I had to do and I had the courage to do it.

So the next day I quit my job and I started my own business.

And I continue to fly around the world working with people who share my values.

The very worst night of my life, what could have been the end of my life, gave me the courage to take a chance and start over again.

So every time that plane lands safely, I am very grateful.

And I am very grateful for my life.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) McMANUS: My name is Pierce McManus.

I'm a digital communications professional and storyteller based in the Washington, D.C.

area.

If I understand correctly, you generally tell stories that are on the lighter, funnier side, but tonight, sharing something, you know, a little bit different.

I'm just wondering, where's that coming from?

What's the impetus to share this particular story?

I have not told a story on stage in a while and I thought, if I'm gonna throw my hat into the ring, I want to tell a story that has a great deal of meaning.

And I also wanted to challenge myself and kind of step out of my comfort zone and tell a story that's a little bit more revealing.

What's your experience when you are up on stage and you know, you just have the audience-- can you just walk us through what you're feeling when that's happening?

There's this indescribable moment when the audience is there with you, and they know exactly how you feel in that moment where they're both supporting you and hanging on every single word.

There's nothing quite like it in the world.

I'm sitting in the backseat of my parents' car as we drive across New York's Tappan Zee Bridge.

Even though I'm 25 years old, I can't help but feel like a little kid again.

Heading out for another one of my father's educational day trips.

My dad is behind the wheel because he always is, and my mother is sitting beside him in the front passenger seat just quietly staring out the window.

The only sound is the thump of our car tires hitting the road joints on the bridge.

Today, we're headed to the commuter rail station across the river where I'm catching a train into Manhattan.

I'm attending an info session downtown about a possible job and then I'm meeting a college friend for a drink, Kelly.

I've always had a bit of a crush on Kelly, and to be honest, I'm looking forward to seeing her a whole lot more than sitting through this job presentation.

I keep that bit to myself, though.

Dad wouldn't approve.

My father and I have never agreed on much.

The only thing we share in common is a name.

Pierce.

He's always been Big Pierce, and I've always been Little Pierce.

Big Pierce would come home from work, filling the doorway of our house like a giant, still wearing his New York City policeman's uniform.

"Hello, my lovelies!"

He'd shout as he slid his service revolver off his belt and placed it in the wicker basket on top of the refrigerator.

And then he'd take a seat at the head of the kitchen table and absolutely inhale whatever meal my mother had prepared for him.

But that was a long time ago.

Breaking the silence of the car, my father launches into one of his cop stories.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was working a 4:00 to 12:00 with Kenny Petrillo?"

It's the one where a passing motorist throws an unlit flare through the open window of my father's squad car, and his partner mistakes it for a stick of dynamite.

I've heard this story at least 500 times, probably more.

But today, Dad is happier when he tells it.

Almost joyful.

We get to the train station, and I hop the train.

And as the city starts coming into view, I start thinking back to all the decisions that have brought me to this moment.

I graduated college in '92, and I moved to D.C.

with some big, big plans.

Got a master's degree, and then I set my sights on a career in international politics.

Things are not going according to the plan.

At a certain point, when I tell interviewers that my name is Pierce McManus and I'm the son of a New York City cop, they look at me like maybe I'm in the wrong room.

So when my father sent me an application for the New York City police exam, I registered.

I passed the test and was summoned back for today's information session.

The instructions I got in the mail were vague.

"Put on a suit, report to One Police Plaza."

That's all I remember.

I'm not here today because I've always wanted to be a New York City cop.

I'm here because my father thinks I could be a New York City cop.

He can't help me in D.C.

he's said as much.

That world is completely foreign to him.

But here in New York, on the job, maybe you could open a few doors for me.

Because when you're 25 and things aren't working the way you thought they would, it starts to sound like a pretty good option.

Besides, I don't know what I'm doing in D.C.

anymore, so maybe this all makes sense.

It is nice to see Dad happy for a change.

When I get to the orientation, I'm herded into this giant auditorium with hundreds of other young men and women.

We fill out paperwork, our fingerprints are taken, and we're told to sit and wait.

The minutes tick slowly by.

I'm getting antsy.

I'm supposed to meet Kelly on the other side of town in an hour, and this thing hasn't even started yet.

I lean over to the guy sitting next to me.

"Do you know what's taking so long?

What are we doing here?"

He looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Don't you know why you're here?

Today's the day we get sworn in."

"Whoa, sworn in?"

"Sworn in!

To the police academy."

Now, I'm pretty sure the paperwork I got in the mail said "orientation."

I don't remember... ...I don't remember reading anything about an oath.

And as my pulse begins to race, my seatmate proceeds to tell me, "Today is the happiest day of my life.

"I have been working the night shift at JFK Airport for years, dreaming of this moment."

Suddenly, it all feels very real.

This isn't an info session.

This is a commitment.

And it is abundantly clear that I do not belong in this room.

I take a deep breath.

I squeeze past the knees and the bags and the briefcases, and I head for the two enormous doors at the back of the auditorium.

I push those doors open, and I'm suddenly standing on a Manhattan street corner, sunlight hitting my face.

An hour later, I'm sitting across from Kelly at a midtown bar, and I tell her everything that happened.

She then tells me about the guy she's dating.

(audience laughter) A New York City fireman.

(audience laughter) As we're saying our goodbye, she asks, "What are you going to tell your father?"

And I don't have an answer.

Call my father from a payphone at the train station to let him know I'm heading home.

"How'd you make out today?"

he asks.

"I'll tell you when I see you, Dad."

He's waiting at the train station when I arrive.

My mother is sitting next to him in the front passenger seat.

I take my usual spot behind them in the back seat.

My mother is the first to speak, "So what happened today?"

I start rambling about paperwork and fingerprints.

Sitting around... ...until my voice just trails off.

The car keeps moving.

The bridge stretches on.

The only sound is the thump of our car tires hitting the road joints on the bridge.

We're mid-span on the Tappan Zee when my father finally speaks.

"You walked out, didn't you?"

There's so many things... ...I want to tell him.

Instead, I just say, "I did."

He doesn't respond-- we reach the end of the bridge and the car goes quiet.

A quiet that lasts a long, long time.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ WALKER: I am Johanna Walker.

I live in Northampton, Massachusetts.

I work as a speaking coach.

I work with coaches and consultants, workplace professionals.

And I help them speak better, with more confidence, and I help them tell stories.

So I'm wondering what specifically about sharing a personal story on stage in an environment like this is compelling to you?

Getting to hear about how other people figure out how to overcome adversity.

It's fun.

You know?

I always say, like, if you can set up the stakes, I'm with you no matter how big the story is.

So even the most benign story can be a completely compelling story.

I was hoping you could speak to what you think makes telling a short story, something between five and seven minutes, so challenging, yet also effective.

WALKER: It's hard to boil it down, because there are so many things, so many details we want to say, and it can be easy to feel like we need all those details.

It's just the craft of finding which details are really going to drive the story forward... ...and which are unnecessary.

The sign said, "People have died here."

Which seemed like useful information for the cautious, slightly terrified 22-year-old that I was.

I was visiting my best friend Aimee in San Francisco, and we had taken a day trip up to Point Reyes, a national seashore north of San Francisco with craggy cliffs and pristine beaches down below.

We were with her boyfriend, Steve, who was 20 years older than we were.

He was a bona fide hippie.

We were born in the '60s, he'd been a teenager in the '60s, so his relationship to rules was a little bit fluid.

We were looking for a quiet, beachy spot to hang out for the day, so we bypassed the public beaches and walked out to Tomales Point.

We had bags of cameras and art supplies and beer.

Nothing says prepared for wilderness survival like pastels and an I.P.A.

So at one point we go off the trail to look out over the cliff and there are these signs there that say, "Do not go near the cliffs.

People have died here."

So I'm like, okay, cool.

And then Steve says, "Here's a spot, let's go down."

And I say, "No, no, no, wait a minute, we can't go down.

People have died here."

And he says, "Oh, don't worry, that's just for the tourists.

They want to scare the tourists away, we'll be fine."

In spite of the fact that I was a tourist, I said, "Okay."

And we pitched ourselves over the side of the cliff.

Immediately, the ground starts crumbling beneath our feet.

There is nothing to hold onto.

So we drop down on our butts and we just slide down this cliff.

And I call out to Steve, "Steve, how are we going to get back up?"

And he says, "Oh, don't worry, "we'll walk out towards the point.

It'll be less steep there, we'll be fine."

And then we get down to the beach, and it's truly beautiful.

There's a herd of sea lions bathing on the shore, and they waddle out to sea.

It's low tide, and so there are tide pools with bright fish and tiny creatures and these magnificent cliffs above.

Feels like we hit the jackpot.

So we put on our blankets, we make some art, we make some photos, we drink the beer, and then when it's time to head back, we gather our things and start walking towards the point to find that less steep spot.

So we're walking along the beach, and I look up and the cliffs aren't getting any less steep.

We stop at one spot and we start to climb.

We get barely off the ground and we drop back down to the beach, and we're clearly not going to make it there.

So we keep walking, we find another spot, same thing.

We barely get off the ground before we have to come back down.

So we keep walking, we find another spot.

Frankly, it doesn't look any different than the two we just tried.

But we know we have to get off this beach.

So one by one, hand by hand, foot by foot, we make our way up the side of the cliff, grabbing onto anything we can get a hold of to pull ourself up.

We make our way to a perch about 25 feet up.

Then Steve goes ahead of us to scout the terrain.

He comes back down and he says, "We can't go further.

We have to go back down."

At this point, I say, "No, I'm not going down.

It took everything I had to get here, I am not going down."

He says, "Well, you're not going up."

So then I say, "Okay, fine.

I'm going to sit here and wait for the helicopters."

And I meant it.

I planted myself on that rock and I sat there.

From where we were, we could look down onto the beach, which was disappearing.

The tide was coming in, and it seemed clear that if we went back down to the beach, that ocean would swallow us whole.

And we would become among the people who had died there.

I don't know what Steve said, he must have said something like, "Well, the helicopters won't come for about three more days, and you'll probably be dead by then anyway."

So I agreed to go back down.

So we made our way back down to the cliff, to the disappearing beach.

By now, the beach to the point was gone.

We couldn't go towards the point, so we made our way back in the other direction.

Now, there were points where the rock was jutting out to the sea and the ocean was there, so there was no beach.

So we had to climb over these jagged, pointy rocks.

We were cut and scraped and bruised and the salt water stung and we were hungry and dehydrated.

I told you I had beer, I didn't tell you we had no water.

Hydration was not a thing in the '80s.

(audience laughter) So we're, like, hugging the rock as we're making a way back along this beach, and then we turn towards the ocean, and we think that's our way out.

We decide we can go out past the surf, and swim to the nearest beach, leaving our cameras and our art supplies, but it's our cameras or our lives.

And we head out into the surf to swim to safety.

And then promptly turn around.

That is not happening.

The ocean is too unforgiving.

So we're standing there on this very narrow beach, feeling defeated and like we might not find our way out.

We feel very, very small.

But we find ourselves back at the place where we had made our initial descent.

I look out at the sea, and the fog is thick and heavy and the light is low, but there's a beam of sunlight piercing the fog, shining down on the water right where the sea lions are swimming.

I take in some strength and power from that beauty, and I turn to Steve and Aimee and I say, "It is beautiful here, but I don't want to die here."

So we turn around and we give the cliff another go.

We figure out that one of us can attach our body to the rock and then the other two climb up over it.

It's the only way we get traction.

And one at a time, attach our body to the rock and we climb one by one, over one another until we get to the top.

And when we get there, we fall on the ground and we kiss it.

And then we cry, and then we roll over and laugh.

We walk the three miles in the dark, cold and wet to the car.

When we get there, we take off all our clothes.

We blast the heat in the car, we blast the stereo, and we drive home naked.

(audience laughter) Playing Beethoven's "Ode to Joy."

(audience laughter) Conducting the entire symphony with our weary and grateful hands.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪