“You got a hater! Progress!!!” Abby responded, a few minutes after I sent her the story of receiving an unkind email in response to this newsletter. I laughed, and her enthusiasm lifted my spirits, which were oscillating somewhere between What did I do wrong? and That was just weird.
“I got a haterrrr. I got a hater! Haters welcome here,” I replied gleefully.
The hater’s timing was intriguing, because only four days prior, and without prompt, my therapist had made the point that as my work in the world grows, so too will my critics. She referenced Brené Brown’s research on shame and reminded me that in Daring Greatly, a book I read probably eight years ago, Brown teaches that we must live “in the arena,” doing our life’s work wholeheartedly and enthusiastically, despite the ferocity of a jeering crowd. My therapist’s take on the whole thing was simple.
“There will be critics, and there will be people cheering for you. Your job,” she said, “is to focus on the people cheering for you.”
So, fortuitously prepared for such an event by an actual psychologist, that’s what I did. Once I thought about the people I respect and admire who have joined me in this space and offered encouraging feedback for almost three years, supporting my development as a writer, my hater didn’t stand a chance.
This seemed a milestone worth noting, because like many humans, I spent a lot of years just trying to be liked. It took a long time to feel comfortable with this statement: I am not for everyone, and everyone is not for me.
The desire to be accepted is nothing new; it’s an old story, and it runs deep, into adulthood and social media and parties and parenting. Sometimes I still think about it. Moments in my childhood and adolescence were agonizing in their ability to make me feel like an outsider.
For years I was an awkward, evangelical homeschooler with bangs. Later, I attended a tiny Christian school that no one knew existed, which didn’t have any advanced classes or extracurricular opportunities for growth. Until I went to art school at age 17, I spent my formative years feeling isolated and longing to be part of something. The kids in public school seemed normal, and whatever that meant, it did not include me.
I found myself trying on different hats that, from my vantage point, seemed to be popular, or at the very least mainstream. Leaving a plaid shirt unbuttoned over a loose tee? Sure, I can do Dawson’s Creek meets Old Navy. Chunky platform shoes even though I hated heels? The late nineties demanded nothing less. Sewing a bra into a tankini by hand to copy a friend? How I wish I could forget.
Wrestling free of the impulse to seek acceptance and validation no matter the cost took a decade and a half and no small amount of self-examination. My true voice was buried for a period as I tried on various paths that pointed me towards society’s definition of success, but ultimately belonged to someone else. Gaining validation through achievement—in my career, for example—seemed one way to be admired and belong. Society’s stamp of approval is easily mistaken for affection, and the accolades I earned came with a feeling of satisfaction I did not find, for the most part, until I was an adult.
With a promising career in front of me, and a deep desire for success and affection behind me, it is somewhat of a miracle that eventually, I was able to hear my soul whispering I want more.
There were a couple of turning points. First, I committed myself to healing my nervous system, which was tangled up in the past and pumped anxiety and adrenaline through me in distracting ways. Living with a disrupted nervous system makes it hard to ever truly get quiet, and without getting quiet, it is hard to notice what your soul is trying to say.
Secondly, I read Playing Big by Tara Mohr, whose instruction to “unhook from praise and criticism” and “external indicators of success” resonated deeply. She suggests noticing both your inner critic and your inner mentor, but training yourself to listen only to your inner mentor, which she paints as an older, wiser version of yourself. Her advice to stop playing the role of good student was perfect for a former honor-roll junkie like me, and she emphasized recognizing your calling and simply embodying it right away, which told me I didn’t have to wait for someone to hire me to do the things I want to do.
The same year, I read The Places That Scare You by Pema Chödrön, which supported me in a painful chapter when nothing else could and illuminated that even the most difficult times can offer a pathway to healing and transformation. That pathway helped me get quiet enough to notice that the ambivalence I felt towards my career contained a deeper message.
I was finally ready to be myself in the world, whether I was accepted for it or not.
The transformation I experienced didn’t happen overnight. I still had self-conscious moments along the way, wrapped up in that old desire for validation. Eventually I learned to choose honesty over performance and people pleasing. I had to peel back layer after layer to get cozy and confident in who I am. It was there all along, but over time, and occasionally hesitating, I learned to feel proud of it rather than ashamed.
Now, I am no longer trying to get this right. I no longer fear I might be defined by what other people think. I am only committed to showing up, day after day, as thoughtfully and honestly as I can. I am always open to feedback and conversation, but selectively, from those of you who are, as Brené Brown puts it, “in the arena getting your ass kicked, too.”
So let the haters hate. I am a human with big feelings and many thoughts who loves words. Finally, I can recognize that not as my burden, but as my gift.
Between you and me—
I love reading to you. In case you missed it, I am now offering weekly audio versions of everything published on WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE.
You can listen to last week’s on Spotify, Apple, Substack, or wherever you listen to podcasts.
Many of you know that last weekend was a big one at my house. John stepped in on short notice for an orchestra, learned little-known music in record time, and didn’t just get them through it, but made them shine. We know I am biased, but I can’t tell you how affirming it feels to see him recognized after all the years of quiet preparation he has done behind the scenes. After some early success, he was excruciatingly patient.
How can he more fully embody sound? How can he find creative freedom and improvisation on top of clear beats? What makes classical music relevant to anyone, at any time? These are the questions he (and we) have been asking, and their answers resonated at both concerts.
We were both moved at various points through the weekend, overcome with wonder that the place for this moment would be—entirely unexpected and with great surprise—right at home, surrounded by people and colleagues we love. What a life.
I’ll see you next week. Take care out there.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. The best gift you can give her is to personally recommend this newsletter to a friend. If you read and enjoy this work and have the means, please consider becoming a sponsor. Every supporter is deeply appreciated.
"Now, I am no longer trying to get this right. I no longer fear I might be defined by what other people think. I am only committed to showing up, day after day, as thoughtfully and honestly as I can. I am always open to feedback and conversation, but selectively, from those of you who are, as Brené Brown puts it, “in the arena getting your ass kicked, too.”
So let the haters hate. I am a human with big feelings and many thoughts who loves words. Finally, I can recognize that not as my burden, but as my gift."
The arena I think Brown is referring to is from Roosevelt's "Citizenship in a Republic" speech. Part of this speech is given to every soldier that is removed from special forces training at Fort Bragg.
I look forward to sharing your words with my daughters. Your writing is beautiful. Thank you.
Love this piece! Please keep putting your authentic, well written work.