The final round of one of my last ever tournaments was supposed to be the culmination of four years of work. I’d prepped, practiced, and polished until I could perform my speech in my sleep. Every gesture had been rehearsed, every transition refined, every line memorized until it felt like muscle memory. But as I waited for the round to start, something felt off. My hands weren’t trembling with excitement like they used to. I wasn’t nervous; I was numb. I looked around the prep room and saw faces I’d competed against for years — people I used to admire for their creativity, now hunched over laptops and notes, perfecting the same polished structure we’d all been told was “the way to win.” When the results came out and I broke to finals, my teammates cheered. I smiled for the pictures, held up my award, and laughed at all the right moments. But the truth was that I wasn't proud. I just felt tired. That was the moment I realized how easily a community built to celebrate voice and intellect can become one that silences passion in favor of performance.

Speech and debate used to be the thing I looked forward to every week. My novice season was filled with laughter over bad cases, chaotic duo rehearsals, and late-night brainstorming sessions that somehow always ended with inside jokes and takeout food. We loved it because it made us think, speak, and connect. We cared more about what we were saying than how it sounded. But somewhere along the way, that joy turned into obsession. Now, it’s not uncommon to hear students brag about how little they sleep before tournaments or how they rewrote their case seven times to stay “competitive.” Entire weekends vanish into marathon practice sessions, and teammates whisper about who might get ranked over whom. People spend more time strategizing about judges’ paradigms than actually engaging with their ideas. It’s not just about hard work anymore. Instead, it’s about self-erasure—polishing yourself until there’s nothing left that’s uniquely you.

The culture of competition has a way of sneaking up on you. At first, it feels like motivation: you want to be better, to break at the next tournament, to prove yourself on a bigger stage. But soon, it becomes a kind of quiet desperation. Every ballot becomes a referendum on your worth. Every ranking feels personal. You start to chase approval instead of improvement, external validation instead of internal growth. The circuit, which once felt like a place for learning and creativity, starts to feel like a treadmill that never stops. And no matter how many trophies you collect, it’s never enough.

Part of the problem lies in how speech and debate measures success. Rankings, bid lists, and national qualification boards have created an invisible hierarchy that pushes students to equate worth with placement. You can give the most heartfelt speech of your life, and it won’t matter if the judge drops you for “lack of clarity” or “vague impact.” I’ve seen competitors deliver speeches that made people cry, only to walk away empty-handed because their hand movements weren’t “controlled” or their intro didn’t “hook strongly enough.” In an activity built to teach persuasion and communication skills, we’ve ironically persuaded ourselves that second place means failure. Coaches, parents, and alumni, often out of love, push competitors toward results instead of reflection. When praise only comes after a trophy, it teaches young speakers that their ideas matter only when they’re award-winning.

I’ve had friends quit because they couldn’t handle the constant comparison anymore. They were some of the most talented speakers I’ve ever met, but the system wore them down. Others stay in, but they change. Their speeches start to sound the same as everyone else’s, their performances lose the spark that once made them special. And when I look at them, I see a reflection of what I almost became: someone who was so focused on being “the best” that they forgot why they ever started.

We don’t mean to create that mindset, but we do. By celebrating victory over growth, we’ve redefined success in a way that strips the heart out of what speech and debate was meant to be: education through expression. Fixing this culture won’t happen overnight, but it starts with small shifts in mindset. Competitors need to remember that their speeches and cases are theirs. Whether they win or lose, they’re shaping their ability to think, to argue, and to inspire. That’s something no ballot can quantify. Coaches need to build programs that celebrate effort as much as excellence, reward growth, not just gold medals, and hold check-ins not only about competition prep but about well-being. 

Because speech and debate, at its core, is supposed to teach us how to speak truth to power, but it’s hard to do that when the pressure to “be the best” makes us forget why we started. I still compete, but I compete differently now. I remind myself that the point isn’t to destroy my opponents but to express an idea better than I did last week. I’ve learned to appreciate the moments that don’t earn trophies: the team dinners after a long tournament, the laughter in hotel lobbies, the quiet sense of accomplishment after giving a speech that finally feels right. I’m still proud when I win, but I no longer measure my worth in trophies.

Because when all is said and done, the best speeches aren’t the ones that win — they’re the ones that mean something. They’re the ones that remind us why we fell in love with this activity in the first place: not because it made us perfect speakers, but because it made us better thinkers, better listeners, and better people.