The first time I stood behind the counter of the school's fundraising stall, my hands felt clumsy and my voice came out too quiet. It was a Wednesday afternoon in early March, and the stall was set up near the canteen, draped in a bright yellow tablecloth that flapped in the breeze. I had signed up for the shift weeks earlier, thinking it would be easy—just handing over packets of biscuits and collecting coins. But now, facing the first customer, a Year 9 student with a bored expression, I realised I had no idea what to say. 'Um, everything's a dollar,' I managed, and she dropped a coin on the table without looking at me. I felt my face go red.

The first ten minutes crawled by. I rearranged the packets of chocolate chip cookies and the little bags of lollies, trying to look busy. A couple of younger kids came by, and I fumbled with their change, dropping a twenty-cent piece that rolled under the table. I had to get on my knees to retrieve it, and when I stood up, my hair was messy and my cheeks were burning. I wondered why I had volunteered at all. My friend Mia was supposed to be on the shift with me, but she had swapped out at the last minute, leaving me alone. I felt a knot of anxiety in my stomach, convinced I was doing everything wrong.

Then, around the twenty-minute mark, a teacher I didn't know very well stopped by. She was one of the science teachers, with grey hair and kind eyes. She bought a bag of lollies and then asked me how the stall was going. I started to say 'fine,' but something made me pause. 'Actually, it's a bit harder than I thought,' I admitted. She smiled and said, 'The first shift is always the hardest. You'll get the hang of it.' Her words were simple, but they made me feel less alone. I thanked her, and as she walked away, I noticed my shoulders had relaxed a little.

A couple of younger kids came by, and I fumbled with their change, dropping a twenty-cent piece that rolled under the table.

After that, the shift started to flow. I learned to greet customers with a clear 'Hi, everything's a dollar' and to count change without rushing. A group of Year 7 girls came by and spent ages deciding between cookies and lollies, and I found myself laughing at their indecision. One of them asked if I was new, and I said yes. 'You're doing okay,' she said, and I felt a surprising warmth at her encouragement. By the end of the hour, I had sold almost everything except a few packets of cookies. I packed up the stall, counting the coins into a ziplock bag, and felt a quiet sense of accomplishment.

Looking back, that first shift taught me something about stepping into unfamiliar roles. It wasn't just about selling snacks; it was about learning to handle awkward moments and small failures without giving up. The dropped coin, the red face, the quiet voice—they were all part of the process. I realised that everyone starts somewhere, and that the first attempt at anything new is rarely smooth. What matters is that you keep going, even when you feel clumsy or out of place. That afternoon at the stall became a small but important memory, a reminder that confidence comes from doing, not from waiting until you feel ready.

Now, whenever I see a new volunteer at the stall, I make a point to say something kind. I remember how much that teacher's simple comment meant to me. The first shift at the stall was a lesson in empathy and persistence. It showed me that behind every confident person is a series of awkward first tries. And that's okay. In fact, it's more than okay—it's how we grow. I still have that yellow tablecloth in my memory, flapping in the breeze, and I smile at the thought of my nervous thirteen-year-old self, learning to find her voice one coin at a time.