The Café Ambush
I get criticised quite a bit. Usually, I don’t see it coming.
Just this week, while ordering my usual at the local café, the barista looked me straight in the eye and said, “You talk too much.”
Me! Imagine my outrage. I was halfway through a sentence about composting.
She wasn’t being cruel—just blunt. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe I was. Or maybe she was right. Either way, I did what I usually do when someone critiques me out of the blue: I smiled, nodded, then went home and stewed over it for hours while googling new cafes.
Because that’s what criticism does. It burrows under the skin, even when it comes from strangers. Especially then.
Why It Hurts So Much
Brains can be melodramatic. We respond to criticism as if it's a savage attack: our hearts race, cortisol surges, and indignation flares up. Compliments barely register, but a sharp remark — whether from a barista, boss, or partner — can linger for days.
My reflex is denial followed by sulking. I like to think of myself as “open to feedback”—as long as it’s gentle, agrees with me, and is factually correct. Otherwise, no thanks.
Feedback with Barbs
An incident decades ago in an emergency department taught me a valuable lesson about the impact of harsh feedback.
I was the psychiatry registrar on duty one Friday afternoon. A manic woman arrived with her mother—clearly unwell, clearly refusing help. She was a lawyer and patient advocate, and her mother was terrified that if we certified her involuntarily, it would stain her career. The waiting room was full. My patience wasn’t.
But I slowed down. I listened. I nudged. I circled back. It took nearly four hours, but in the end, she agreed to come in voluntarily. I went home exhausted, but quietly proud. This was psychiatry at its best: persuasion rather than force.
On Monday, my boss forwarded me an email from the emergency department clinical director—who hadn’t been there but had read the notes. His verdict: I’d “rushed the case” and “wasn’t thorough.”
It felt like being accused of walking through a marathon. My self-esteem, already fragile that year, flared with rage. I drafted lengthy mental rebuttals and thought about forwarding my phone records as Exhibit A.
Instead, I turned to my mentor from that time (Professor Fiona Judd, for those in the industry), who listened patiently before offering her maddeningly calm advice: ‘Steve, even if the facts are wrong, there may be some truth in it. Let’s tease it out.”
Infuriating. I wanted fire. Instead, I got perspective.
Spotting the Nugget
Later, sulking, I reopened the notes and saw what the director saw.
I remembered every careful turn of that conversation. But my notes? Bland, sparse, technical. And the four hours I’d spent weren’t visible. If all you had was the record, you might think I’d rushed.
He wasn’t entirely right — but he wasn’t completely wrong either. And I reckon he looked at the notes because he’d seen me in action before and was checking on me – I did tend to rush, and I usually cut a few corners (it was, and probably still is, my style).
That was the nugget of gold. In fact, two: slow down and write better notes.
Delivery Isn’t Data
Since then, I’ve noticed most criticism comes barbed and hidden behind ego, frustration, or poor timing. Sometimes it’s honest; other times, petty.
But the wrapping doesn’t change the content. You don’t have to like the critic, justify their motives, or even reply. Just sift for the useful bit, test it, and discard the rest.
And yes — sometimes there isn’t any useful feedback. Some feedback is just rubbish. That’s fine too. Toss it and move on.
My 24-Hour Rule
These days, when criticism rattles me, I try the 24-hour rule: wait a day, then ask if there’s one thing I can test.
Clearer notes. Sharper questions. Speak less! If it works, I keep it. If not, I let it fall where it landed.
I’d love to say I now take criticism like a saint. I don’t. I still flare up, still sulk. But I’m better at pausing before I pounce. Better at spotting gold without swallowing the rubble.
Back at the Café
As for the barista—maybe I do talk too much. Or maybe she just needed some quiet with her cappuccino machine. Doesn’t matter.
Most criticism looks like rubble. But if you sift carefully, sometimes you find a nugget. Small, useful, annoying gold.
And these days, I’m trying to pocket it quietly. At least until the coffee kicks in.