The 2 Percent

I’ve found that some moments in life stay with us so vividly that they become woven into how we encourage ourselves—and others. One of those moments for me came during my first experience presenting at a national conference.

It was a conference I had originally submitted a proposal for while I was still in the classroom, only to have it canceled due to the pandemic. The following year, my submission was accepted once again. I was elated and eager to finally see this opportunity come to fruition. I even invited my mom to attend with me—to watch me present and to help support me throughout the experience.

At that point in my career, I had spent a year on a professional learning team and had learned to view presentations through a different lens—one that recognized the power of engagement. I was determined to bring that same energy and intentionality to my session. I planned every minute of the hour: humor, real-life examples, a true jigsaw activity, and even space for applicable practice.

Then, as I was finalizing my plans, I learned that my session was completely full. All 200 seats. I had underestimated my reach, expecting maybe 75 to 100 participants and feeling thrilled at the thought of that. Instead, my expectations had doubled overnight. I spent the next two hours at the hotel Kinko’s making copies and adjusting logistics, determined to ensure that my engaging session remained just as I had envisioned.

Once I gained access to the room, my mom and I embarked on the mission of preparing each table for the planned activities. Every seat was stocked with the documents needed to fully participate—200 seats in total. Seeing it all laid out was both exhilarating and overwhelming.

The session went better than I could have imagined. Participants were engaged, conversations were rich, and the questions were thoughtful. I was especially amazed to watch a room of 200 people successfully participate in a true jigsaw activity—something that felt ambitious even in theory, yet unfolded more smoothly than I could have hoped.

I left that day riding a quiet buzz of accomplishment and pride. The remaining days of the conference were energizing, informative, and inspiring. As I boarded the plane home, I knew I had just done something I never truly believed I could.

Weeks later, the session evaluation results arrived. I eagerly opened them, ready to dissect every rating, comment, and piece of feedback. Out of the 200 participants, 100 had completed the post-session evaluation. Many of the scores reflected how I felt the session had gone—pages filled with 4s and 5s on a five-point scale. Then I reached a number that made my stomach drop: a score of 1 in every category.

My face flushed as I scrolled, trying to steady myself. Not much farther down, I saw another—again, a 1 across the board.

I was stunned. Embarrassed. Heartbroken. How could my work have been perceived so negatively? Where had I gone wrong?

I called my mom in tears, sharing what felt like devastating news—that I had received two extremely low evaluations. As I explained the survey and the results, she paused before offering a perspective I hadn’t yet considered.

“LaRaesha,” she said gently, “that’s two percent.”

She was right. Two percent of the respondents. One percent of the entire session population.

And yet, I had allowed those two evaluations to overshadow everything else—to diminish how I felt about my work and myself.

That moment became a powerful reality check: not everyone is going to love you. No matter how thoughtfully a session is planned, how engaging it is, or how much heart is poured into the work, people are diverse—and not everyone will connect with what you share or how you share it.

To some, I may be too upbeat or energetic. If I were to tone that down, others might find me dull or inauthentic. The same work, the same voice, received in entirely different ways.

I carry that lesson with me now—as I do the hard work, as I share my story on this blog, and as I move through everyday life. Not everyone is going to love what I create. I can listen to feedback. I can reflect, learn, and grow. But I can also choose not to let the two percent define how I see myself or my work. The most important thing I’ve learned is this: those who don’t connect with what I do should never be louder than the many who do—and they should never paint the picture I hold of who I am.