We all remember insults.

I was going through my inbox last week, looking for a specific client testimonial, when I came across an old email from two and a half years ago.

It was from someone who'd read one of my early newsletters and had taken the time to write four paragraphs back, explaining how terrible of a writer I was. I made everything sound too easy, or the examples were stupid or made up, and the cherry on top: “You’re so full of shit. Just another BS guru newsletter. I expected a lot more substance from you."

Ouch.

When I came across that old email, I didn't even need to read the whole thing because I could already quote parts of it from memory. Basically word-for-word.

Then I tried to remember all of the compliments I’ve received recently.

A few popped into my mind, but nothing stuck out the way this old, mean email did. I get tons of nice replies daily, but I couldn't recite one word-for-word.

But that mean email is imprinted in my mind.

I don’t think this phenomenon is specific to me. I think most of us carry around criticism like this. When I talk to entrepreneur friends and this subject comes up, everyone can name (without fail) someone who said something terrible to them, what it was, when it happened, and all the unsavory details.

How criticism sticks

I'm sure there's some brain science behind all of this. Criticism seems to stick around, and since I'm not a neuroscientist, I'm not sure why it happens.

And, it turns out that I don't just remember the criticism better. I also give it more weight.

I recently wrote a newsletter about micro-freedoms. And I got more than 300 replies. People told me it changed how they thought about spending their days working. That it gave them permission to do less, try something different, or even retool their entire business. Most people seemed to really like it.

I also received a handful of replies about how I was being irresponsible in suggesting that people grab a cup of coffee in the middle of a Thursday. How I didn't understand the reality of their specific situation and why it wasn't possible. About how I’m so privileged and how dare I suggest something so difficult for so many people, yet “so easy” for me.

Guess which group I thought about when I was writing my next newsletter?

I spent the next few weeks trying to write something that wouldn't upset those people. The newsletter I finally sent was about "leverage is the solopreneur superpower." It was professional, balanced, and kind of boring.

Very few people unsubscribed. Very few people replied either.

The ghost audience

I have a friend who runs a consulting business helping small brick-and-mortar shops transition to selling online more effectively. A few months ago, she had a client who was impossible to please. Nothing she delivered seemed to impress the client. The strategy wasn't strategic enough, and the analysis wasn't actionable enough. The project ended badly, and the client demanded a partial refund.

That was one client out of at least fifty she's worked with.

But now? Every proposal she writes is designed to avoid that one person. Now she offers extra revision rounds that aren’t necessary. And by doing this, she’s underpricing her services by at least 20% (in my opinion). She offers up these long explanations about her process before the customers even ask.

I had coffee with this friend a few weeks ago, and she was thinking about changing her entire service offering. "I'm worried a lot of people might have the same complaints."

I asked if any of her current clients had those complaints. She paused. The answer was no.

So you're changing what's worked for fifty people because of one person who complained months ago?

She laughed as she admitted that's exactly what she was doing.

What this actually costs you

When you build your business around avoiding criticism, you end up serving old ghosts instead of real people.

And the worst part is that while you're adjusting your entire strategy, the critic is long gone. They’ve moved on to criticizing other people. That's how most critics operate.

But you're still there, trying to be good enough for them. Watering down your personality, playing it safe, and making sure nothing you do could possibly upset some random person who's not even paying attention anymore.

And your actual audience? Your truly ideal customers? The people who want to hear from you? They get the diluted, lame-duck version of what they signed up for, because you’ve got your tail between your legs.

What a wasted opportunity.

I looked at my most popular newsletters last month. The ones that got the most replies, the most shares, the most "this is exactly what I needed to hear" messages.

They were the pieces where I was most myself. Where I shared the messy, uncomfortable truth about something I was struggling with, or admitted I don't have it all figured out.

The safe newsletters? The ones trying not to upset anyone? Those got some polite responses and nothing much else.

Turns out you can't be very interesting while trying not to upset anyone.

And what’s the point anyway?  We’re living in a time when people are compulsively looking for things to be upset about. No matter how hard you try, someone will cry foul anyway. It’s inevitable.

What I do now

I keep a folder in my email called "Hell Yeah." When someone sends me a message about how a newsletter helped them, I slide it on over there.

Not because I need an ego boost. Because I need evidence.

A few weeks ago, I was writing this piece about never finding time to rest. Candidly, it felt a bit uncomfortable. I'm supposed to be the guy who has rest all figured out, but I have been struggling with it recently. I knew it was a helpful topic, but that voice in my head said, "Someone's going to hate this."

So I opened that folder. I read ten messages from people who'd told me the personal, honest stuff is exactly what helped them. That they were tired of generic newsletters saying the same old stuff. That they wanted to hear from someone who was actually in it, figuring it out, and occasionally falling on his face.

So I simply asked myself: Am I writing this for the 175,000+ people who are here, or the thousands who have left?

I published the messy version and ended up with 200 replies. Including one from someone who said they'd been struggling to rest for six months. My newsletter gave them the permission to book a vacation to Vietnam with their partner. That one went straight to the Hell Yeah folder.

The bottom line

Compliments fade, but insults stick around. That’s just how our brains work. And we may not ever be able to control that aspect of our emotions.

But you can make conscious decisions about which compliments and insults drive your business decisions. And what kind of weight any of it truly deserves.

And when you’re making those decisions, I want you to remember this: The critic is long gone. They found someone else to tell what's wrong with their work. They're not waiting around to see if you fixed what they complained about.

But your real audience, or customers, are still here. And they're waiting for you to stop playing it safe. They’re waiting for you to give them the specific, honest, interesting, authentic version of you that made them pay attention in the first place.

You can't build something meaningful while trying to be un-hatable.

So stop carrying around that insult from two months ago. Brush it off and remember the compliments from last week. Make a Hell Yeah folder for yourself.

And here's my question for you today: What's the one piece of criticism you're still carrying around? And what would happen if you decided to forget it?

Reply and tell me. I read them all, even if I can't respond to everyone.

That's all for this week.

See you next Saturday.

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