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.

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Help! I think I just did something brave... and I'm terrified!

Ever done something bold and thrilling and daring, then woken up the next day and thought, ‘what the hell have I done?!’

I’m not talking about a party flashback (although, God knows…). I’m talking about the big life-changing decisions that force you into a frightening place of immense vulnerability where your future no longer seems secure as it was. The result: terror and regret. But mostly terror.

Yesterday I signed a lease on a practice room at a holistic health centre in Inner West Sydney, from which I’ll be offering reiki and angel card readings, two days a week. I’d been talking about doing this for months, and I think everyone was as bored with the subject as I was. It was time to put up or shut up. So I did. I put down a hefty deposit and signed a lease which I’m bound to for a year. At the time I felt emboldened, confident and optimistic. But within hours I had that gut-wrenching ‘oh-God-what-have-I-done’ feeling. I don’t need to tell you this is a significant financial risk on my part. There’s also more than a small element of emotional risk too – if I don’t get a healthy client base I’m going to look and feel like a failure. 

As the landlord was asking me about my target audience (um, anyone with a pulse?) and my marketing plan (don’t even know what that is), I suddenly realised I’m in way over my head. I do not have a single client, and I don’t know the first thing about how to get any. I know I’m good at energy healing and angel communication (well, so my feedback indicates) but I also know ability and talent are immaterial if you can’t get anyone to walk through your door.

Guys, this is terrifying. The only thing keeping me from having a full-blown panic attack is the faintest hope that this *just might* work out. And the sense that if I don’t give it a go, I’ll always wonder whether it might have.

In a way, this reminds me of last year when I quit Auckland and moved to Sydney – a decision which also defied logic and threw me into an uncertain future, both financially and personally. And here I am again, staring at a foggy road ahead. Feeling woefully unprepared, but mildly buoyed by some brilliant person's quote that goes something like this: ‘No one is ever really ready for anything’. I’m whispering that silently, and often, to my Richter-scale-level thudding heart.

I know how much is riding on me backing myself and promoting my skills, and I’m genuinely unsure whether I can do that. There’s only one way to find out.

Nobody wants to feel vulnerable. But everybody needs to. Here's why

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re at school or work, and suddenly you look down and realise you’re completely naked? That sensation of feeling exposed has been a constant for me since I started this blog, and I’m starting to realise that that’s a good thing.

Renowned vulnerability and shame researcher Brene Brown talks about a ‘vulnerability hangover’ – that stomach-churning feeling of dread that occurs when you’ve revealed more of your true self than you have before, and now you feel emotionally exposed, ashamed and probably full of self-loathing. You’ve shattered the façade of coolness and competency, revealed your authentic self, and in doing so have put yourself up for judgment and potential ridicule.

Perhaps you texted someone asking if they’d like to go on a date, and they haven’t replied. Maybe you told your workmates about your battle with post-natal depression and they hurriedly changed the subject. Perhaps you started a blog where you outlined your deepest fears, your slightly left-of-field spiritual beliefs and all the things that make you different. (Um, hello!)

I think you can see where I’m going with this. 

Depending on the type of content, I get a massive vulnerability hangover almost every time I post on this blog, and it can last for days. I've penned some very personal stories in this space, and in one instance, the exposure factor made me felt so yucky that I could not bear to publish that post for two days. Eventually I did, because I knew that would help me destabilise my fears… but I can’t tell you how sick I felt about it. 

There aren’t enough hash browns in all of McDonald’s to ease a vulnerability hangover.

Brene Brown has dedicated her academic career to teaching us why allowing ourselves to be vulnerable is an act of strength, not of weakness, and it can transform the human experience. She is incredible – seriously, if you see only one TED talk in your lifetime, make it this one... there’s a good reason it’s one of the most viewed talks on the channel. Brene writes that being encased in a self-protective shell hampers the extent to which we can grow and fully experience life – the way we love, belong, trust, feel joy and express creativity, etc – in all its uncertain glory.

Being vulnerable is not, by the way, the same as revealing details about yourself in a bid to get attention or sympathy. Celebrities are not making themselves vulnerable when they post nude pictures or TMI details about their health; they are only revealing the extent of their low self-esteem and need for validation.

Back to my own vulnerability hangover. I am happy to report that, so far, I have lost no friends as a result of making myself vulnerable on this blog, and I am not aware of anyone slagging me off (although I can’t rule it out).

Actually, some wonderful things have happened. I am more (quietly) confident and more self-assured. I am less controlling of my own and other people’s behaviours, less afraid of judgment, less afraid of isolation, and less afraid of all the one thousand and one things that could go wrong at any given moment. I don't think that is solely due to the blog; I've been doing a lot of work on improving my low self-esteem and I'm sure that has been a major contributor. But being vulnerable, I am realising, is an essential part of growth, and by doing so I have strengthened my relationship with myself. By forcing out of the shadows the sense of shame that I had held at my core, I am seeing myself in a more compassionate, more accepting light. I feel like I am starting to become the person I was supposed to be all along but had not felt safe enough to let myself be. 

It has also transformed my relationships with others. In the process of opening myself up and revealing unflattering details about myself, I have forged deeper connections with people already in my life, and established common ground with strangers. And in that process, many of these people have revealed the rawness of their humanity to me, too. People’s pain. People’s insecurities. People’s fragility. I am seeing old friends in a brave new light. I have once again been reminded that though we are different, we really are all the same.

None of this was the purpose of my blog, but it is a better outcome than I could have expected.

There’s a sentence by lyrical US writer Andrew Solomon that I scrawled in the front page of my diary at the start of this year and I come back to it every time I need to be reminded of my inherent value. It’s the closest thing to a life motto I have. It reads: “If you can give language to experiences previously starved for it, you can make the world a better place.”

Through this blog I am making my world a better place. I can't help you or anyone else make your own world better – that job belongs to you – but if me writing about my journey of personal growth prompts you to ask yourself new and pressing questions about what you stand for, where you are going and how you might be keeping yourself hidden, my ongoing vulnerability hangover might *just* have been worth it.

It still feels yucky though.