October 2019. Moscow. Skoltech. I remember the chill in the air, the kind that bites just enough to make you pull your scarf a little tighter. I was there to talk about storytelling, to a room full of master’s students, mostly scientists, during their innovation workshop. To be honest, I walked in with a healthy dose of “what am I getting myself into?”
I’ve always believed storytelling isn’t just for writers or filmmakers. It’s the essential tool for anyone trying to connect, especially when you’re dealing with complex ideas. And that’s what we focused on: how to make science, these incredibly intricate concepts, relatable. How to turn data into something that resonates, that sparks understanding.
The room buzzed. It wasn’t just polite nodding. There was a genuine hunger to learn, to figure out how to bridge that gap between the lab and the world. I skipped the typical slide decks and bullet points, opting for a visual approach, relying on photos and constant interaction. It was about getting everyone involved, making them practice, stumble, and then, hopefully, find their voice.
You know that feeling when you’re in the zone? When you’re not thinking about the next slide or the perfect phrase, but just connecting? That’s what it felt like.
Then came the end. Dmitry Kulish, the professor, head of entrepreneurship, stood up. I braced myself for the usual polite thanks. But what he said… it wasn’t the usual. He didn’t just say it was “good.” He spoke about the quality, comparing it to what you’d see at places like Boston, Cambridge, or the universities in Singapore. He called it “super quality.”
That wasn’t the part that stuck with me the most. It was when he looked at me, in front of everyone, and said he wanted me to come back, to be an External Instructor during their Independent Study Period, to teach a full class on storytelling. An invitation, not just a compliment.
I’ve replayed that moment in my head countless times. It wasn’t about the ego boost, though, let’s be real, that felt pretty good. It was the validation. The recognition that something I genuinely believe in, something I’ve poured my heart into, resonated. That my approach, my way of seeing storytelling, had value.
There’s a rawness to that kind of validation, a feeling of being seen. It’s not something you can manufacture or chase. It just happens. And when it does, it stays with you.
It’s been years, but even now, typing this, I feel that same surge of excitement. That moment in Moscow wasn’t just a training session. It was a reminder that genuine connection, real engagement, can happen anywhere, with anyone, if you’re willing to be honest and put in the work. And for that, I’ll always be incredibly grateful.
