In an age where everyone can speak, expressing an opinion can feel oddly dangerous. One sentence lands wrong, and suddenly you’re “that person.”
I’ve felt that fear, too.
After I publish something, I reread it again and again, tweaking words and softening edges. And still, it can “ferment” online, spreading and changing shape as more people join in. A sincere share can be read as showing off. A calm discussion can turn into a fight. After enough of these experiences, many of us do the safest thing we can think of.
We go quiet.
I used to be part of that quiet crowd. Even starting my public writing this year took a long time. I’m still cautious. I still hesitate. But I’m learning to do something else: to accept the full range of voices that show up—supportive, confused, critical, misinformed, even mean.
Because only when you accept what’s there can a new perspective appear.
Not every voice is an attack
The turning point for me was this: I stopped treating every response as an assault. Instead, I “went down” into the comment section, not to defend myself, but to observe and to feel.
What I found was simple and almost funny. Behind every opinion is a different person with a different goal. If the lens is different, the conclusion will be different.
Some people argue to clarify. You go back and forth, and then suddenly you understand each other.
Oh. So that’s what you mean.
And some people argue only to repeat emotion. The conversation loops. After twenty minutes you realize you aren’t even talking about the same thing.
Here’s the part that matters.
You can choose.
You can choose whether to continue. You can choose who is worth going deeper with. You can choose to exit.
The deeper choice: accept change, accept imperfection
There’s another layer to this kind of choosing: accepting that ideas exist, even the ones you don’t like—and accepting that the world keeps changing.
What you say right now might be wrong. Not because you’re stupid, but because someone else saw something earlier than you did.
What someone else says right now might be right. And a few years later, when you look back, it might be wildly wrong.
If that sounds unsettling, it is. But it’s also freeing. It means you don’t have to cling to being right. You only have to stay awake.
Still, this isn’t a skill that appears out of nowhere. It takes real inner energy to practice it.
Recently, while reading William Zinsser’s Writing to Learn, I found a description that made the whole thing click.
Writing is vulnerable. That’s the point.
Zinsser says writing is, by nature, vulnerable. The moment a reader sees your work, you lose control over how it will be interpreted.
That loss of control is not a bug. It’s the deal.
So what do you lean on when misunderstanding is guaranteed?
Zinsser points to two kinds of inner fuel: confidence and self-respect.
Confidence is the belief that what you’re writing has value. It gives you the courage to write for yourself first. When you’re moved by your own words, there’s a chance someone on the other side of the screen will be moved, too.
Self-respect is what keeps criticism from collapsing you. It doesn’t mean you’re beyond feedback. It means your sense of self isn’t held hostage by every reaction.
I edit for myself and I write for myself. I assume that if I consider something interesting or funny, a certain number of other people will too. If they don’t, they have two inalienable rights—they can fire the editor and they can stop reading the writer.
Once you accept the limits of language, a more rational choice becomes possible. You stop spending energy trying to control what cannot be controlled, other people’s interpretations, and you return to the one thing you can actually influence.
The work.
Curiosity is what you earn after you stop trying to control people
When you’re focused on the act of creating, it becomes easier to meet different voices with curiosity.
Wow. That’s what you think? Interesting.
Sometimes those collisions produce new ideas. Sometimes they simply remind you how varied human experience is. Either way, they can become nourishment for your next piece of work—if you let them.
The other day my husband commented that a certain writer’s work was self-indulgent and long-winded, and he couldn’t understand why anyone liked it. In the past, I would have argued with him. I genuinely love that writer.
Now I mostly think: he doesn’t like it, and that’s fine. I don’t have the time，or the need，to persuade him into my taste. If I ever feel like debating, I’ll do it then.
I write my own self-indulgent things sometimes. He usually doesn’t care for them. And yet, at our wedding, after he heard the vows I wrote, he cried so hard.
Later he tried to save face. He joked that if he hadn’t deliberately said something terrible, how could my vows have sounded that good?
Maybe he’ll never like that writer. Maybe he will, after life hands him the same kind of experience. Either way, so what?
Time moves. People change.
And because different voices exist, we get sparks when they collide. That’s one reason the world is so lovable, so interesting, if you’re willing to let it be.
One day, I might even find myself saying, “You remember that writer I used to defend? I’m starting to see it now—he really is a bit self-indulgent.”
“Wait. Didn’t you love him?”
If this resonated, you might enjoy a few more notes from me. [Click Here]
