I once gave a speech to 150 college students with gum stuck to my suit.
Not metaphorical gum. Real gum. Melted gum. My heated car seat fully sealed the deal.
I was driving in bad weather. I didn’t have time to brush my teeth, so I did something I never do. I popped in a piece of gum.
When I rolled down the window to throw it out, it did not go out. It bounced back in. It slid down my back. And I sat in it.
I arrived at the event completely unaware. Checked in. Smiling. Professional. Ready.
Until the event coordinator ran over, and, in an urgent whisper, said, “Kim. Come here. Right now.”
There was gum on my jacket. Gum on my pants. Everywhere. And there was no fixing it.
I had to give the speech anyway.
I walked up feeling awkward, trying to angle myself so the audience couldn’t see the gum, while moving in a way that suggested nothing was wrong. We got to Q&A. I thought we were done and began to walk off the stage in the same awkward way I walked on.
They said, “Wait, can you stay? We have a couple more questions.”
Which meant I had to turn around.
So I said it.
“Before I turn around, you should know something. I have gum on my butt. I’ve had it since I got here.”
The room went silent for a beat. Then exploded into laughter.
Not cruel laughter. Genuine laughter. I went back up to the podium and proceeded to answer the rest of their questions, which now included, “How in the world did you end up with gum all over your butt?”
Afterward, a few of the young women at my table said, “That was so refreshing. You made a mistake, and you just owned it.”
They told me how hard they are on themselves. How terrified they are of messing up. How they replay awkward moments in their heads, with one flaw overriding everything that went right.
They also said something else that stuck with me.
They told me I seemed so put together. That, from where they were sitting, I looked like someone who had it all figured out.
And that made the moment when I named what was happening even more liberating for them.
And here’s what struck me.
I had just delivered a full talk covered in gum. And it didn’t diminish the experience at all.
If anything, it made the room warmer.
There’s real research behind why.
Perfectionism has been rising for decades, particularly among young adults. Psychologists like Thomas Curran and colleagues have documented this trend, showing increases in socially prescribed perfectionism — the sense that others expect you to be flawless.
That pressure is heavy. And while perfectionism is often glorified or mistaken for high standards, research links it more closely with anxiety and distress than sustained performance.
At the same time, research by psychologist Kristin Neff on self-compassion shows that people who respond to mistakes with self-kindness rather than self-criticism are more resilient, less anxious, and more motivated to improve. Self-compassion is associated with healthier achievement striving, not lower standards, but less shame.
In that moment on stage, I could have spiraled.
I could have tried to hide it. Pretended nothing was wrong. Spent the entire Q&A calculating angles and exits.
Instead, I named it. And something shifted in the room.
There’s also strong evidence that psychological safety, a term championed by Harvard researcher Amy Edmondson, increases engagement and performance in groups. When people feel safe to take interpersonal risks, including making mistakes, they contribute more freely.
Owning the gum didn’t shrink my credibility.
It created a connection.
And that matters.
We spend a lot of energy managing impressions. Polishing the resume. Rehearsing the answer. Trying to hide the gum.
But what builds trust isn’t flawlessness.
It’s being human.
I still care about doing things well. I still prepare. I still hold myself to a high standard.
But I no longer confuse polish with worth.
And I don’t assume that one visible mistake diminishes the room.
Sometimes it opens it.
little moments of alchemy 