Why criticism stings so badly, and why we can't afford to hide from it

*Trigger warning: contains bullying themes*

What is the worst thing someone has ever said to you, or about you? The thing that stung so badly you can feel yourself plunging into a barbed-wire pit at the memory?

Maybe you had to think about it. Maybe a dossier of vitriolic words sprung into your mind immediately. Maybe you simply don’t care what people think of you (if you fall into this category, I’m assuming you’re either a cat or Lena Dunham).

I’ve written a lot about my difficulty in accepting compliments and praise, but it wasn’t until last week at a talk by prominent vulnerability researcher and TED Talk star Brené Brown that I started thinking about the ways criticism, and the fear of it, have shaped my choices and behaviours.

Brené, who was in Sydney to open The School Of Life, described the eye-wateringly savage comments made about her 2010 TED Talk (which, incidentally, remains one of the top five talks of all time). These included nasty remarks about her appearance and her weight, and expressions of “pity” for her husband and children. Because if you really want to wound a woman, and you are protected by the anonymity of the world wide web, you go straight for the jugular – her looks (which is how society measures her value) and her worthiness to be loved by others (which is how she measures her value).

For me, the most devastating criticisms were made in my adolescence. Unlike the other kids at my small religious school, I was not from a rich family. I did not wear surf labels, I wore clothes handed down from my older cousins. My dad was in the building trade, not a lawyer or accountant. I had zero interest in watching, or participating in, sport (this was a cardinal sin in provincial New Zealand). I was a sharp, eager learner, and I knew big words that other kids did not. In essence, this is the (unrequested) feedback I got: you’re different, you don’t belong, no one wants to be your friend, and, most stingingly, no one will ever marry you. These junior emotional assassins managed to cut through to the core desires of me and every human being: to be loved and to belong.

While I was reflecting upon this ugly chapter of my life, I came undone under the weight of one very heavy memory. I remember going to a school disco and being so ridiculed for what I was wearing that I ran into the cloakroom, climbed to the top of the locker cube and spent the entire night lying against the wall so no one could see me, counting down the hours until Dad arrived in his ute to pick me up. This happened more than 25 years ago, but in many ways I am still that little girl in the pink corduroy skirt making herself as small as possible. I am still searching for acceptance. I am forever mourning for the cool, popular, enviable person I will never be. 

That’s the thing about the most hurtful criticisms, the ones we never forget – they maim us because they appear to confirm a belief we secretly held about ourselves: that we are not good enough. Yes, bullying is an extreme example, but the intensity of the criticism is not the point. When you are criticised, either for what you’ve done or for who you are, it will make you want to retreat and protect yourself. It will make you sorry you tried to do that brave thing, and highly unlikely to do so ever again. It will make you want to hurt other people. It will make you paint yourself as flawed, inadequate and unworthy; you will be wrong on all three counts.

Bestselling author Liz Gilbert does not read reviews, an experience she describes as biting into a sandwich of broken glass. Brené carries around a one inch by one inch piece of paper on which she’s listed the names of the few people whose opinions she cares about. If your name is not on the list, she will disregard your feedback. Because if you are sitting in the cheap seats passing judgement on others instead of standing up, baring your soul, living a life you are proud of and risking getting your arse kicked, Brené has no time for your opinion. 

Brené absolutely 100 per cent cannot let fear of criticism stop her from making herself vulnerable in her work, her relationships and her life choices. Because she knows from her research that being vulnerable is how we grow and connect. Vulnerability, she says, is showing up and being seen when you don’t know what the outcome will be. Courage is risking people judging you. It is unwise to stop caring what people think of you, she notes – because then you stop connecting. Human beings are wired for connection – and (in my opinion) those connections are what gives life meaning. For many years I held back from connecting with people because I was not willing to risk being truly seen. I was safe, but one-dimensional. One of the ways I have made myself vulnerable is by being open about my ability to communicate with angels, and risking being labelled a weirdo.

If we want to live full, satisfying, meaningful lives and experience deep relationships, we must risk criticism, judgement and negative feedback. We must dare to stand out even though we may be mowed down by the people who are playing safe. If we do not, we will never know all that we can be and all that we are capable of.

As one of my favourite quotes (the one on my Facebook page cover picture) declares: “Our tragedy isn’t in the failing, it’s in the not trying. We are here to risk our hearts.”

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I love getting great feedback, but struggle to accept it (this struggle IS real)

One of the really great things about having a spiritual business is that you receive wonderful feedback from people. One of the challenging things about having a spiritual business is that you receive wonderful feedback from people.

Yep, you read that right.

As much as I love hearing from people whose lives have been fundamentally altered by a card reading, who’ve felt uplifted after reading a blog post I’ve penned, or who’ve been moved by an Oracle Card Of The Day, sometimes that feedback makes me feel uncomfortable.

I’ve been asking myself some probing questions about why I have such an uneasy response to what is, for all intents and purposes, a thing to celebrate. Why it is that I sometimes have to put the phone down and take several deep, slow breaths before I respond thanking that person. Why I might change the subject when a client thanks me for the healing session I’ve given them. It’s because, when I’m communicating with spirit then relaying those messages or transferring that energy to others, I am making myself very vulnerable. Equally, when I share my deepest thoughts and emotions on this blog. And when people respond to that vulnerability, it amplifies how exposed I feel. And that can be terrifying.

I want to make it clear that I do really love your feedback – it’s incredibly helpful for me to be shown how the positive energy I’m giving out is being received (and then returned to me in spades). But I still feel uncomfortable when it comes to receiving such feedback.  

Recently I read a fascinating article on Psychology Today (yes, I’m a nerd… but I doubt that’s a surprise to you) about the fear of acceptance. I’m familiar with the fear of rejection, but the idea of someone avoiding acceptance was new to me. Except that it wasn’t that new to me, actually, because it’s something I’ve been acting out throughout my life in many ways – I just didn’t know there was a name for it.

This is the statement in the article that resonated most with me: “When you are with someone whose demeanour, smile or kind words suggest that they respect, like or accept you, how do you feel inside? Do you notice some inner squirming or discomfort?” Yes I do. Lots of it.

Here’s what fear of acceptance means: in a bid to protect ourselves from being rejected, we take measures (both consciously and unconsciously) to avoid being accepted. We sabotage friendships and relationships. We stay on the outer fringes of social circles and events, to avoid being noticed. We get hung up on what people might think of us instead of focusing on how we feel in their company. Basically, we like to hide.

But having a spiritual business means I don’t get to hide. I have to show up wholeheartedly. I have to be vulnerable and human.I have to be ALL IN.  I cannot keep people at a distance. I cannot play safe. I cannot mirror the attitudes or behaviours of other people – I have to honour my own truth. I can no longer run away from connection.

Coming up against internal resistance is usually a pretty good sign that there’s something underlying I need to address. It’s an opportunity for growth. So following the article’s advice, this is my new strategy. When I receive a heart-felt compliment or a comment on something I’ve done that has made an impact on someone, I’m going to lean into the discomfort. I’m not going to brush it off. I will not attempt to transform into a person who loves getting attention and who embraces compliments like a boss – because that is not how I’m wired. Instead, it’s about accepting that this makes me uncomfortable, and being OK with that. Choosing to lean in anyway. And realising – eventually – that I’m completely safe to do that.

RELATED LINKS: With compliments. Just own it, darling

the art of accepting compliments

Receiving compliments is not a comfortable experience for me. Because I’m self-employed I have to fly the flag for my work – it is the mark of my “brand” (ugh, please forgive my brief lapse into marketing speak; it won’t happen again) and of my value. Because my work is published on the reg, it’s out there for people to comment on. Thankfully, they seldom do – I don’t receive a lot of feedback, and I’m happy with that. But on the rare occasion someone – generally within the industry, as readers don’t usually correspond unless they want to complain – proffers a compliment on a piece of mine, there’s a part of me that dissolves into cringe mode. 

I used to work with someone who would greet any compliment with a look of faint disgust. Her response was to tell you all the things that she regarded as being wrong with her story, and all the ways she should/could/would have improved it. It was almost like a slap in the face for the person giving the compliment – basically she was saying: ‘your opinion is uninformed and irrelevant, so keep it to yourself’. In her effort not to appear arrogant (FYI being proud of your work is not arrogant!) by deflecting the compliment, she came off as haughty and a little precious. Of course, it’s perfectly healthy to be self-critical – how else will you hone your craft if you can’t see the areas in need of improvement? – but to pour your personal dissatisfaction onto someone who just wanted to say something nice seems somewhat disrespectful. I understand that humility is important but I don’t think discrediting the opinion of someone who had good intentions is very fair.

My response to compliments is much less petulant. Over the years I’ve learned to disregard my discomfort and simply say: ‘thank you, I really appreciate your feedback’. I might not share their affection for the piece, but that’s OK. It’s taken some time to figure out how to separate my feelings about my work from the feelings of others. Even if I’m profoundly disappointed in the way I’ve executed a brief, if someone with no vested interest in that story enjoyed reading it, that’s awesome. I’ll take that. My work is, after all, for other people to read. It’s not some grand monument to hang in the Eternal Gallery of Trudie. 

Despite knowing this, whenever I receive a compliment I feel a small part of myself squirm. Partly this is because I’m shy so I don’t particularly enjoy being singled out in any way. Having attention drawn to something that bears my name – and by extension, drawing attention to myself – is an awkward experience. I much prefer to blend into the background. Unfortunately my work as a healer requires me to stand out.

The cringe factor also comes back to shaky self-esteem – which, I’m happy to report, is increasingly less shaky the more I work on my personal development. I’m better at actively challenging any message I tell myself along the lines of ‘you don’t deserve... ’ It’s harder for me to believe self-deprecating messages than it was in the past; they don't stick like they used to. That doesn’t mean I embrace compliments, but it means I don’t automatically reject them either. It’s a good sign that I am learning – finally – to value myself and my abilities. 

The times they are a-changing.