I Became a Motivational Speaker by Accident

I didn’t set out to become a motivational speaker.
I set out to get to my office.
The lift stopped between floors.

Not long enough to panic.
Not long enough to press any emergency button.
Just long enough for everyone inside to suddenly become very interested in the ceiling.

Someone sighed.
Someone checked their phone.
No one spoke.

That’s when it hit me.
This wasn’t a delay.
This was content.

A normal person would wait quietly and hope the lift moved again.
I opened Facebook.
I wrote something like:

“Today, I was suspended between floors.
Not stuck.
Just paused.
Sometimes life holds us still, not to punish us, but to prepare us.”

I wrote about being suspended between where you were and where you’re meant to be.
I didn’t think much of it.
I posted it because the lift still wasn’t moving.

By the time I reached the office, people were already reacting.
“So true.”
“Needed this today.”
“This speaks to me.”

One person commented, “This is leadership.”
I didn’t know what kind of leadership involved standing silently in a lift, but I thanked them anyway.

Someone else commented, “This spoke to my soul.”
I wanted to ask which part.
The lift or the floor.

One day my computer froze.
Normally I would swear quietly and restart it.
Instead, I stared at the loading icon and felt a strange calm.

This isn’t a crash, I thought.
This is content.
I wrote about how systems fail when pushed too hard.
About how stillness is sometimes forced upon us for growth.

I used the word “season” even though it was just Windows Update.
People loved it.
They didn’t ask what software I used.
They didn’t ask what actually went wrong.

They thanked me for the lesson.
That’s when I realized something important.

Nothing in life has to be wasted.
Not inconvenience.
Not awkwardness.
Not mild discomfort.

Everything can be repurposed.

The next day, the lift was slow again.
Different lift. Same feeling.
This time, I was ready.

I wrote about patience.
About trust in the process.
About how progress is still progress, even when you can’t see it moving.

People loved it.
They didn’t ask which building.
They didn’t ask how long the delay was.
Details would have ruined it.

Soon, I stopped living normally.
Every small event arrived already wearing a lesson.

The aircon was too cold.
I wrote about adapting to environments beyond our control.

My coffee tasted bad.
I wrote about expectations versus reality.

The pantry had no biscuits.
I wrote about abundance mindset.

Someone replied late to my message.
I wrote about releasing attachment to outcomes.

I wasn’t solving problems anymore.
I was harvesting them.
Life became a steady supply of inspirational raw material.

One afternoon, the lift stopped again.
This time, someone laughed nervously.
I didn’t.
I was busy thinking about line breaks.

Then something strange happened.
People started asking me for advice.
Not about lifts or laptops.

About life.
They assumed that because I could extract meaning from spilled coffee, I must have mastery over existence itself.

I did not correct them.
Correction is the enemy of momentum.
Eventually, an HR department reached out.
That’s how you know you’ve gone too far.

They asked if I could give a short talk.
Just twenty minutes.
On resilience.
Or leadership.
Or navigating uncertainty.
They said I could choose the topic.

That’s another secret.
When people don’t care what you say, you’re free.
I titled the talk something vague.
Very vague.
Something like “Turning Moments into Momentum.”

I didn’t prepare.
Why would I.
I had been preparing my whole life by being mildly inconvenienced.

On stage, I said things I had seen written many times before.
“This is just the beginning.”
“We don’t grow in comfort.”
“Every pause has a purpose.”
“Every challenge is feedback.”

I watched people nod.
Not vigorously.
Slowly.
The way people nod when they want to appear thoughtful without committing to understanding.

Nobody asked questions.
Questions create accountability.
Afterward, someone came up to me and said,
“Thank you. This really resonated.”

I smiled.
I didn’t ask what part.
That’s when I understood the truth.

You don’t become inspirational by overcoming great hardship.
You become inspirational by narrating ordinary moments confidently.

You don’t need wisdom.
You need spacing.
Short lines.
A calm tone.
And a willingness to treat every inconvenience as intentional.

Now, whenever the lift stops, I don’t feel annoyed.
I feel grateful.
Because I know exactly what to post.

PS I write books too. They live here:
https://payhip.com/samchoo