Why talking like a teenager might make you a better speaker

When it comes to public speaking, the standard advice has always been some variation of the same checklist: stand tall, project your voice, structure your points, keep your hands still, and never, ever use filler words. It’s the kind of rulebook taught in corporate seminars and debate clubs, passed down like inherited trauma from one earnest presenter to the next. But something is shifting—and not quietly. A new kind of speaker is emerging, and they sound less like a polished CEO and more like your cousin mid-rant on FaceTime. Think: chaotic energy, emotionally transparent storytelling, and the verbal equivalent of TikTok jump cuts.

This is not regression. This is reinvention.

In 2024, a clip from a student startup pitch went viral not because of the product—it was some note-taking app—but because of the way the speaker delivered it. “Okay, so I’m gonna overshare for a sec,” she began, eyes wide, already slightly off script. What followed was part confession, part comedy routine, and completely captivating. She lost her train of thought twice, made three self-deprecating jokes, and closed with “Anyway. That’s my villain origin story.” The room laughed. Investors clapped. On social media, people didn’t just ask for the app link—they asked for her TikTok.

This is what presenting like a pro looks like now. And somehow, it sounds a lot like being nineteen.

We’re in the middle of a cultural rewrite of what “good communication” means. For decades, the model has been clarity, structure, authority. That’s still valuable, but it no longer guarantees attention. What cuts through now isn’t confidence—it’s familiarity. Not performance polish, but emotional fluency. And no one has mastered this better than teenagers, especially the ones who came of age online.

They’ve spent years talking to front-facing cameras, narrating their thoughts mid-makeup routine, turning storytime into content strategy. They don’t just know how to speak—they know how to be watched. And more importantly, they know how to hold that watchfulness with a kind of casual intimacy that older professionals still mistake for unprofessionalism. What looks like mess is often a calibrated way of creating connection.

This isn’t an argument for dumbing things down. It’s about acknowledging a shift in audience psychology. Attention spans haven’t just shortened—they’ve become trained to scan for signals of authenticity, vulnerability, and novelty. We are now primed to respond to narrative tension, tonal shifts, meme references, and real-time emotional reveals. In that world, the overly prepared, perfectly poised speaker doesn’t feel inspiring. They feel distant. Like a rerun.

Teen-style communication invites the audience into the moment. It says, “We’re figuring this out together.” It leaves room for pauses, for asides, for spontaneous recalibrations. It rewards expressiveness over efficiency. And surprisingly, it often results in more retention, not less.

Consider the rise of “controlled chaos” as a presentation aesthetic. Speakers start with a messy anecdote, loop in pop culture references, interrupt themselves with side comments, and still land the point—often with more resonance than a perfectly formatted slide deck. It’s a blend of theater and truth-telling, shaped by years of growing up on platforms where every story competes with a hundred others for your thumb’s attention.

Some will argue this style lacks seriousness. But that’s a misunderstanding of the medium. Talking like a teenager isn’t about being juvenile. It’s about using the tools of informal language to create immediacy. It’s about modulation. It’s about knowing when to drop your voice, when to throw in a “wait, no because,” and when to pause just long enough for the audience to lean in—not because they’re being instructed, but because they’re being invited.

And let’s talk about filler words. For years, “like,” “um,” and “you know” have been framed as signs of weak communication. But used with rhythm, they serve a very different purpose. They add texture. They signal thinking-in-process. They give listeners space to catch up. In the hands of Gen Z speakers, filler isn’t clutter—it’s cushioning. It’s the difference between being talked at and being talked with.

There’s also a reason rising inflection—a hallmark of Gen Z speech—is showing up more in conference rooms and creator keynotes. Linguists call it uptalk. Detractors call it annoying. But audiences often call it disarming. When used strategically, it communicates openness and non-finality, a kind of conversational humility that invites continued attention. It’s less “I’m the authority” and more “I’m bringing you into this.” In high-trust spaces, that kind of vocal posture creates stronger bonds than declarative certainty ever could.

Of course, this style isn’t without risk. Lean too far into informality, and you risk losing coherence. Get too playful, and the message can get buried under the vibe. But those risks aren’t new—they’re just more visible now. Every communication style has trade-offs. The old-school method may guarantee order, but it often sacrifices engagement. The new-school version sacrifices some polish, but it gains emotional traction. The question is: What matters more to your audience?

It’s also worth acknowledging the deeper equity of this shift. For years, public speaking norms have privileged a narrow set of voices—typically neurotypical, Western-accented, and male-coded in tone and delivery. Deviations were framed as distractions. Now, the definition of “effective speaker” is expanding. There’s room for stuttering, for tangents, for emoting, for speaking in a second language with rhythm rather than perfection. The Gen Z aesthetic opens the door wider. Suddenly, the speaker who rambles a bit, who gestures too much, who uses memes as metaphors—they’re not failing. They’re innovating.

This change isn’t limited to young founders or influencers. It’s showing up in classrooms, corporate retreats, even political briefings. The viral moments aren’t the clean soundbites—they’re the ones with a beat of awkwardness, a crack of laughter, an unscripted line that feels like it wasn’t meant to be rehearsed. We don’t just want knowledge anymore. We want presence.

Because that’s what this really is: a return to presence. When someone talks like a teenager—like they’re figuring it out as they go, like they’re not afraid to show some mess—we lean in. We recognize the vulnerability. We relax our defenses. It feels like conversation, not transmission. And that, more than anything, is what holds attention in a world saturated with noise.

So what does it mean to present like a pro in this new era?

It doesn’t mean abandoning preparation. It means preparing differently. Less memorizing, more mapping. Less controlling, more curating. You still need a structure—but one that can flex. You still need clarity—but not at the cost of warmth. The goal is no longer to eliminate mistakes. It’s to humanize them. Because in the moment a speaker stumbles, laughs at themselves, and keeps going—we trust them more, not less.

There’s a scene that plays out again and again in content creator spaces. A speaker drops their notes. Their screen glitches. They forget their point. And instead of panicking, they just say, “Wait, sorry, my brain just exited the chat.” The crowd laughs. The talk continues. The message lands.

What we’re seeing is a shift from performance to presence, from persuasion to participation. Presenting like a teenager isn’t about pretending to be younger—it’s about leaning into a communication style that values honesty over authority, tone over text, and connection over correctness. It’s about recognizing that in an age of curated feeds and corporate voiceovers, the most radical thing you can be on stage… is real.

So go ahead. Overshare, if it makes the point. Pause, if you’re searching for the words. Drop the occasional “literally same” if it feels honest. Speak like you’re in a group chat—only with better acoustics.

Because sometimes, the most professional thing you can do is stop sounding like a keynote speaker… and start sounding like a human being. The kind that knows a good story doesn’t need to be perfect. Just present. Just true. Just a little unhinged—and fully alive.