I am not good with criticism—are you? Whether or not it’s justified (and to be honest, it often is) it makes me sad and saps my confidence. When someone tells me I am wrong, I want to curl into a ball and hide; leave and never come back, or resign on the spot and say it never mattered anyway. I realise this is not good, that I am often overly sensitive, and need to be more resilient. But I’m not. For whatever reason (perhaps it’s because as a middle child I spent the first 19 years of life being told to ‘Go away Anne!’ or perhaps it’s just how I’m wired) I am not good with criticism.
This is something of a problem when a PhD candidate, because being criticised seems to be how the system works. It seems to go something like this—I spend a few months studying, forming opinions, clarifying my argument. Then I write, and rewrite, what I have discovered. When the chapter is as perfect as I can manage, and trimmed to fit the word count, I submit it for feedback to the university. The feedback is always very negative. Universities do not, in my experience, keep to the ‘Say two nice things first, then say the criticism.’ No, it seems universities study your work carefully, then tell you every tiny point which could/should be better. Which should be helpful, it helps me improve my work and brings me to a level whereby I can achieve a PhD. But when the feedback first arrives, when I open that email with a sense of dread but a tiny glimmer of hope, and I read a list of suggested improvements and an overall not-exactly-enamoured comment, I want to give up. I don’t need a PhD, I’m clearly not up to it, why am I bothering?
Yet something inside of me is not ready to be defeated. Not yet. When I think about when I applied, about how every door seemed to open in front of me, so I simply walked through them—then I remember that it felt very ‘right’ to do this. When I remember the enthusiasm with which I began, the help I received along the way, how much I have learnt already, then I decide to continue. I know, in the logical part of my brain, that all the criticism is helpful, it will make me think more clearly, write more concisely, be better able to defend my position. It will turn me (slowly) from a PhD candidate into a doctor of theology. But the process is sometimes difficult. Going to bed with a tub of ice cream and a novel seems very attractive today.
I suppose that criticism is a form of disappointment, and being alive involves coping with disappointment. Coping with apparent rejection. Like when we feel excluded from a friendship group, do not receive an invitation to an event, fail an exam or miss a promotion—all these produce similar feelings. Which I think is okay—it’s okay to feel disappointment—but what we do next determines what sort of life we will have. At some point, we have to recover (after eating the ice cream) and plan what to do next. For me, this involves prayer, not especially with words, more a lifting of the disappointment and dumping it with God and then moving on, deciding how to procede. Sometimes other people can help but usually I find they make it worse because it’s harder to leave hurt behind if someone else reminds you of it (they either join you in the hurt and fuel the anger towards whoever is to blame, or, worse, they agree with the other person and then all your disappointment and anger turns to them instead). Personally, I find God a better audience. We get second-chances with God.
In the case of my studies, I just need to take the criticism in the spirit in which it was given—it was intended to help me improve. I need to decide what I agree with and change those aspects, and decide what I disagree with and rewrite the chapter so my argument is stronger. It will take time, but that’s okay. I have time. I might not have the ability to achieve this PhD—but I shall keep working with optimism. Because in the end, it’s okay to fail, but never trying, never taking risks, is just a waste of life.
We only get one life, live well. Thanks for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne x
