Member-only story
There was a time when sharing my writing felt terrifying. It wasn’t the reader themself, but the exposure of my thoughts on paper. What if they hated it? What if it was riddled with errors — typos, misplaced punctuation, run-on sentences galore? The “what ifs” would spiral, leaving me paralyzed.
Then, a teacher read my work. Holding my breath, I asked if she liked it. Her response — it was okay, but needed some punctuation love. Relief washed over me.
It wasn’t a rejection, but a chance to improve.
This, the dream I’d feared, wasn’t a nightmare, but a stepping stone.
Criticism, far from being a monster, became my muse.
It forced me to see my work with fresh eyes, to identify areas for growth.
Each critique pushed me to refine my craft, to strive for excellence. It wasn’t about chasing approval from one person, but about the joy of connecting with someone, anyone, through my words.
This wasn’t just true for writing. In hairstyling school, a teacher once pointed out flyaways ruining a style. Frustrated, I questioned how to fix them. Her simple solution: a guiding comb.
