Another long flight and another chance to catch up on the latest(ish) movies: this time The King’s Speech. I was amazed: the parallels between King George VI’s (Bertie’s) speech impediment and fear of failure – the psychological condition I write about in What’s Stopping You? (out this month, by the way) – are remarkable, as were some of the routes to recovery.
The film hinges on the king’s introduction to Lionel Logue, a maverick Australian speech therapist who flew in the face of conventional thinking when it came to the treatment of impediments. Prior to seeing him, the poor prince (then the Duke of York) had to endure a succession of physicists treating it as a purely physiological problem. They had him chewing marbles and even smoking. Yet it was only Logue who saw the condition as psychological and the actual impediment as its physical impact: a symptom of the underlying mental condition. This was evidenced by the fact the stammer was exacerbated by fear – for instance when talking to his father (George V) or when being confronted by his brother (Edward VIII).
And it’s here where the similarities with fear of failure become compelling.
So while the physiological exercises were ongoing, Logue probed the prince’s mental condition – breaking through after a few whiskies. Once Bertie was willing to divulge his childhood traumas – mainly his nanny’s rejection and humiliation of him – Logue was able to identify this trauma as the root of the future king’s stammer, when previously the assumption was that it was something “he had always had”.
Logue’s experience as a speech therapist was in treating returning Anzacs from the western front during the First World War. Many had such serious shell-shock their speech was majorly affected. These days, we call shell-shock Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and, as I write in What’s Stopping You? it is the key prerequisite for fear of failure – especially cases involving early episodes of public humiliation or rejection.
Of course, the fear of failure version is mild compared to shell-shocked soldiers but the responses are apparent nonetheless – and they include stammering as much as they include fear of failure. High-FFs (as I call those with a high fear of failure) fear rejection and the humiliation of failure, which leads them to pursue avoidance tactics with respect to tasks, careers and even personal life choices: anything that brings the potential for humiliation.
Yet I was further fascinated by Logue’s treatment of Bertie. As the abdication crisis gathered force it became apparent our stammerer was going to end up king and be forced to embrace his biggest fear: of public speaking, including via the new technology of live radio broadcasts. It was obvious to Logue, however, that fear triggered Bertie’s doubts about his abilities to speak fluently, which then became self-fulfilling.
This is identical to those with fear of failure. I call this the monkey on our shoulder, who whispers doubt into our ear at the very moments we need to be brave. Logue could rouse Bertie into angry – but perfectly fluent – outbursts. Swearing and singing were also not a problem. But it was those moments of tension – the very moments he needed fluent speech – that his fluency would elude him. And those moments in front of a live microphone were sheer terror.
This certainly struck a chord. I can remember the first time I was on national radio – on Radio 4’s Broadcasting House. As the presenter turned to me the monkey grabbed my ear and said: “this is it. This is IT. The whole country’s listening and you haven’t a clue what to say: have you? They should never have invited you on. You’re a fraud”.
Incapable of clear thinking, my voice cracked, which caused me to panic and retreat to hackneyed clichés. The presenter looked for a chance to escape my failing performance and rarely came back to me after that. Thanks to the monkey, I’d screwed my moment and was never invited back. My 15 minutes of fame lasted about a minute and a half.
Yet Bertie has to face the whole country – literally – at his coronation (the first to be broadcast live to the empire). So how does Logue keep the monkey quiet? By making light of the whole thing. As they rehearse he talks of the archbishop “poncing up the stairs”, of him talking “rubbish, rubbish, rubbish” – all to try and strip the archbishop of his authority (and Bertie his fear of it).
Another fear-reduction tactic used for direct broadcasts (rather than ceremonies) was for Logue to stand right in front of the king so that the broadcasts felt like no more than just another session with the therapist. Winston Churchill also offered his own wisdom – saying that he made a virtue of his own speech impediment, making his part of a distinct style (in what became probably the most famous speech-making style in history). This helped the king recover from the odd halt – stating that he had to “throw in a few so they knew it was me”. Thus the monkey’s power was neutered.
In What’s Stopping You? I discuss the potential for making a virtue of our fears and insecurities – for instance helping us realize that our sensitivities usually mean we are creative and strong lateral thinkers – traits we should harness as we seek to make progress. And that our sensitivity brings with it problems on our way up that can turn us into effective leaders once we become managers, because we understand the sensitivities of the people we lead. Certainly, I’m keen to ensure we realize that our fears are part of us. That the monkey comes too and that accepting him as a fellow passenger is an important part of our recovery.
Finally, in Logue I saw something of myself (if I’m permitted the vanity). He possessed no qualifications and was simply offering his experiences as he saw them, which allowed him to come at the issue from a different direction, and one that offended establishment figures. I too have no formal qualifications to discuss fear of failure. In fact my main qualification is as a sufferer, and as someone who’d read 100s of books on “failure”, “success”, “confidence” and “self-esteem” and found a major gap between what most psychologists stated was innate and the self-help gurus said was possible (if you follow their advice). I saw a role in researching both deeply and in trying, through writing, to both marry the two and convey this for any reader potentially stymied by their fear of failure, and other insecurities halting their progress.
I wasn’t expecting to like The King’ Speech. I expected a typical Merchant Ivory style offering of the romanticized English upper classes. But – thanks to my research into fear of failure and other fear-based insecurities – I loved it.
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