A Masterclass, a Room Full of Twenty-Somethings, and the Moment Everything Needed to Be There at Once
A Masterclass, a Room Full of Twenty-Somethings, and the Moment Everything Needed to Be There at Once
The night before the masterclass, I didn’t sleep.
I went to bed at 1 a.m., still sorting through my slides, making sure everything was perfect.
Crap. I’d missed my 10 p.m. goal of going to bed early. Knowing I had to be downtown Turin by 8:30, I wanted to be out the door with enough time to find parking without adding chaos to the morning.
I seem to have an issue leaving my house on time. Every. Single. Day.
I know that about 90% of it is self-sabotage. What can I say? It’s my Achilles’ heel.
So when I know I have to get up early the next day for a flight, an important meeting, or a masterclass… fuggedaboutit.
It turns into a racing heart, half-formed thoughts, finally drifting into something like sleep, and then oops, awake again! It’s 2:30. Only X hours left.
How am I going to do this?
The clock advances.
3:15. 4:30. Five-something.
And the frustration, catastrophizing, and anger build.
If it’s a flight, fine. I can sleep on the plane.
Before a workshop or masterclass, I’m not going to lie. I’m seriously concerned and dreading the day ahead, knowing full well how lack of sleep affects my body.
When the outcome matters to me
Somewhere deep in my subconscious is the motto go big or go home. My big ideas and big imagination don’t always account for tangible reality. Somehow, I pull it off anyway.
The truth is, I’d be a lot richer and a lot more rested if I were more moderate in my expectations. But I’m not. I’m Emilia. This is how I’ve always rolled, and I doubt I’m going to stop anytime soon. It’s how I live life to its fullest, how I challenge ideas about what is and isn’t possible, and, when it comes down to it, how I do right by the people I show up for: clients, family, friends, or anyone else I give my word to.
In this case, a room full of twenty-somethings.
Doing it “right” becomes more of an undertaking the older, more informed, and more capable I become. I really do believe you never stop learning. I can teach the same class a million times, but time passes between those classes, and in the meantime, I’ve learned something new. Every iteration gets richer, sharper, and more to the point.
By the time I walked into the classroom that morning, I was exhausted and, thankfully, calm.
Forty students—that was a first, and probably the main contributor to my subconscious panic.
Gen Zers with their phones, skepticism, and that subtle here we go again energy that anyone who’s ever taught knows all too well.
My daughter is 23, and knowing I was going to interact with a room full of people around her age led me to believe I was going to be okay. Another part of me worried it would all go in one ear and out the other. In my mind, the real failure would have been eight hours of boredom, with everyone leaving at 6 p.m. exactly as they had arrived at 9 a.m.
I always say, “I hate school.” Maybe I shouldn’t announce that so shamelessly to a room full of people sitting in my class, or at least explain what I mean.
In reality, I love learning, and for me, it happens daily—just not institutional instruction–style. Listening to someone talk endlessly at the front of a room as if the audience doesn’t matter has never been quite my flavor.
As a student, in a setting like that, my attention span lasted maybe three and a half minutes before my mind was elsewhere. In adulthood, I find myself feeling exactly the same while sitting through lectures and boring, unrelatable presentations.
May mercy be bestowed upon me.
No way, not in my class!
I continue to live by the belief that learning is an opportunity for co-creation for everyone involved, including the instructor. The first thought I had just before I spoke was, “Buckle in, guys. We’re all in for a ride.”
I knew I had to let them know early on that they were in for something different, that acknowledged them, and that made it clear we were not in Kansas anymore.
When something else takes over
The day began, and all the buzzing junk noise in my head was just… gone.
Boom! This was happening.
Like a puppet animated from the inside, everything moved without effort. I was listening, observing, talking, joking, explaining, pausing, moving. I was everything I needed to be for them, all at once.
Science calls it flow, and my logical mind accepts that explanation. Inside, it feels like something beyond that.
I know flow well.
I’m a designer and a cook. I played piano and flute for years. I studied fine arts post-graduation, and I’m certainly no stranger to time melting away when you’re fully inside the moment. It’s a phenomenon I’ve experienced often, especially when behind burners with a hundred guests waiting to eat.
This felt like three levels above what I usually identify as flow. Not really doing, just being done through.
While my mouth was moving and my body was physically expressive throughout the day, I remember my mind observing what was happening, almost separately, thinking, “How am I producing these words and making it all come together so seamlessly?”
That separation between thought and voice was honestly fascinating—rather freakish and completely awesome.
Then I remembered that I’d experienced it before.
In fact, it happened every time I stood in front of an audience and took them down a learning path. But for whatever reason, I had forgotten.
Only once did I sabotage my own process. I gave myself speaker notes, afraid I’d forget something or miss a transition. I looked down often at that unnecessary crutch and read them, and a lot of the usual magic just didn’t happen. Don’t get me wrong—it went well, but since we’re being honest here, not my most brilliant execution.
Never. Ever. Again.
From now on, it is what it is. If I fall, it’s an opportunity to learn. That’s it.
Flow reaches its fullest expression when you remove the mud from your mind and trust your instincts. This was my clearest proof of that, and I’m writing it down so I don’t forget it again.
But enough about me—this story is really about them.
The moment that mattered
Near the end of the day, I gave them a simple exercise.
With everything we had talked about, they had reached some conclusions about what differentiation really means and how to understand their own unique abilities.
One by one, quickly, without overthinking, each student had to finish a sentence out loud:
“My superpower is…”
The instructions were simple: no explanations, no adjectives, no qualifiers, and just one sentence.
The shift in the room was immediate.
Posture changed, and the air filled with a slightly giddy excitement. Chatter died down, and each person prepared themselves to jump Geronimo-style.
It became official.
“Young and inexperienced” suddenly felt far less condemning than they had previously believed.
What came after surprised me
Towards the close of the day, I asked, “Now that we’ve gone over mindset, what fears are you still holding onto about the interview process?”
The questions were fantastic. They had real questions about portfolios and asked for direction, about what matters and what doesn’t, and how to manage content.
They were already applying the day’s insights to their own context, and realizing, “Yes, it’s working!” excited me.
Many of them had probably started the day confused about how to approach someone they deemed capable of making or breaking their future, and left understanding that they could provide tangible value to a potential employer.
I could do that because I know exactly what they’re up against.
Designing the workshop from both sides of the table
I coach the people who interview candidates just like them.
I have private conversations with those individuals behind closed doors and hear all about their frustrations and the red flags they notice when candidates say and do certain things.
I took all of that into account when I designed this masterclass, especially around portfolios and soft skills.
Day one was about mindset.
Day two will be about making that clarity visible under pressure.
Why this particular room mattered
I once sat where they’re sitting now, in a mixed group of aspiring Fashion, Interior, Graphic, Transportation, etc. designers.
I studied at a school very similar to theirs, in the same city. I graduated in fashion design. I’ve worked across design disciplines more times than I can count, and I grew up around automotive designers through family, family friends, and close relationships. I worked in the field myself in various forms.
In my case, it wasn’t impressive; it was just survival.
This workshop wasn’t special because everything I know came together. I’ve been composing symphonies like this for a long time.
It was special because I could truly be of service to this particular group. I had answers for them that many people wouldn’t, simply because I’ve lived a non-linear life and career and happen to know about specific things they need specific help with.
Loving their humanness
More than anything, I wanted them to stop seeing their humanity as a flaw.
At that age, it’s easy to confuse lack of experience with lack of value, to believe talent alone is what puts you in competition, and to feel behind before you’ve even begun.
I wanted them to see that they are already gifted in a way that can’t be replicated, like a fingerprint, and that being human isn’t a flaw.
We all have fears, and many of us feel like imposters. It mattered to me that they knew they already had some good stuff to work with and that they can do far more with it if they learn to redirect their attention to the less obvious, bigger picture.
The real gift
At the end of the day, I was exhausted, with a massive headache probably due to the adrenaline crash.
And then the LinkedIn connection requests started coming in, which was truly touching.
Being able to take a lifetime of experience and, in a few hours’ time, reduce doubt, restore orientation, and remind young people that they get to author their own path is a dream come true for me.
As I write this, my nose and eyes sting slightly from a mix of gratitude and thrill.
Every time I think I have it all figured out, life reminds me there’s still so much more to tap into. What a rush.