The Vikings, the School, and the Motivational Speaker

“Hi, we’re looking for a motivational speaker and we saw you on social media….”

This is an email I receive on a fairly regular basis, and my usual response involves checking my diary for availability, a few emails about cost, and then a phone or video call to discuss the content. I also send over my biography for their publicity.

However, a conversation I had last week made me rethink how I respond to these requests—and how I see myself professionally. I was chatting with a small group of people when the topic of motivational speakers came up. One person quickly said, “We had a motivational speaker, and he was great!”

Genuinely curious, I asked, “Why? What did he say or do that was great?”

The answer: “I can’t really remember, but he was good.”

The others in the group had similar responses. They could recall the speaker’s trademark acronym, their outfit, or that they were funny or had written a book. But not one of them could tell me about any long-term, or even short-term, benefit they or their organisation had gained from the experience.

This reminded me of an encounter I had a few months earlier. I was walking into a conference centre where I was scheduled to speak. As I headed toward the registration desk, someone smiled and said, “Hello.” I greeted them back, recognising their face (ADHD has given me the benefit of enhanced facial recognition but taken away the ability to remember names) but struggling to remember their name. They noticed and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

I shook my head slowly, trying to piece together where I knew them from. They continued, “It was over ten years ago.” They then told me the location, and it clicked—they had worked in education in the South of England, and we’d met twice before, many years ago, during my work in that area.

After reintroducing ourselves and catching up, they said, “I never forgot your story about Vikings in school. I’ve used it so many times since, and it really helps people think.”

They were referring to a real situation I had experienced and shared during a conference—a story that made people reflect on their actions and, hopefully, consider changing them. The story itself takes less than three minutes to tell, but its impact has always been powerful. This conversation reminded me not only of the story’s influence but also of its lasting effect.

This realisation has led me to reconsider my role. Rather than identifying as a “motivational speaker,” I now see myself as a Storyvator—someone who uses the power of stories to inspire and create lasting change.

Stories have power. They have longevity. They stir our souls and make us think deeply about our actions.

So, the next time someone asks if I’m a motivational speaker, my response will be different. I’ll proudly say, “No, I’m a Storyvator.”

Richard O’Neill The Storyvator