I’m standing at the podium. The bright light shining down on my face to illuminate the stage feels comparable to a criminal interrogation. I can’t see the town hall members, but I can feel their eyes judging me. They sit in their seats, waiting impatiently for the opportunity to blaze me with their concerns, fears and judgements about who I am and the life ahead of me. I am vulnerable — like the feeling in your gut when you answer a question wrong in class or when a person in your friend group gives you that look of judgment after you say something personal. I am standing up at that podium like I am naked, have forgotten to shave all of my body hair and am the only one without clothes on. That kind of vulnerability.