Ive always started my mornings with the window wide open. In early spring the air is brisk, soft light spills onto the sill, and from the neighbours garden I can hear the chatter of early walkers and the brief song of a robin. While the coffee brews I fire up my laptop and, as first order of business, open Telegram. Over the past two years the channel has become more than a work tool; its turned into a sort of diary of professional observations. I share tips with colleagues, answer followers questions, and untangle the common headaches of our fieldalways politely, without preaching, and with patience for other peoples mistakes.
During the week my schedule is mapped out almost minute by minute: video calls with clients, document checks, email triage. Even between tasks I carve out a moment to glance at the channel. New messages pop up regularlysome ask for advice, others thank me for a clear explanation of a tricky issue. Occasionally followers suggest topics for upcoming posts or share their own stories. After two years Ive grown accustomed to this community becoming a genuine space for support and knowledge exchange.
Mornings pass quietly: a handful of fresh questions in the comments of my latest post, a couple of thankyou notes for yesterdays piece on legal nuances, a colleague sending a link to a freshly published article. I jot down a few ideas for future posts, close the tab with a smile, and brace myself for a busy day ahead.
At lunchtime I return to Telegram during a short break after a call. My eye catches a strange comment under the newest posta name I dont recognize, a sharp tone. The author accuses me of unprofessionalism and calls my advice useless. I decide not to reply at first, but an hour later I see several more messages from different users, all written in the same accusatory, dismissive style. They repeat the same themes: alleged errors in my material, doubts about my credentials, sarcastic jabs about theoryladen advice.
I try to answer the first remark calmly and with evidence, citing sources and explaining my reasoning. Yet the tide of negativity quickens: new comments surface, this time accusing me of dishonesty and bias. Some contain hints of personal dislike, others mock the tone of my posts.
That evening I attempt to distract myself with a walk. The sun hasnt set yet, the air is gentle, the scent of freshly cut grass from the communal lawns drifts past. Still, my thoughts keep drifting back to the phone screen, rehearsing possible replies. How do I prove my competence? Should I even bother proving anything to strangers? Why does a place that once felt safe now feel like an avalanche of judgment?
In the following days the situation escalates. Every new post is greeted with dozens of similar criticisms and snide remarks; the few thankyou notes and constructive questions have all but vanished. I notice my palms slickening at each notification, and I start scanning messages warily. Late at night I stare at the laptop, trying to pinpoint what triggered such a hostile reaction.
By the fifth day I cant focus on work; my mind keeps looping back to the channel. It feels as if years of effort might be reduced to nothing under this wave of distrust. I stop replying to comments almost entirelyeach word feels exposed, each sentence too easily misread. A loneliness settles in the space that once felt welcoming.
One evening, with trembling fingers, I open the channels settings. I hold my breath before I hit the button that turns off comments. Then I type a short note: Friends, Im taking a weeks break. The channel will be paused while I rethink how we interact. Writing the final line is hard; Id like to explain everything, to justify myself to regular readers, but I lack the energy.
When the pause notification pops up above the message feed, a mix of relief and emptiness washes over me. The evening is warm; through the cracked kitchen window a fresh herb scent drifts in. I shut the laptop and sit at the table in silence, listening to the street voices and wondering whether Ill ever return to the work that once brought me joy.
Adjusting to the quiet after shutting down the channel isnt immediate. The habit of checking messages lingers, but alongside it comes a sense of release: I no longer have to defend, justify, or craft answers that please everyone.
On the third day of the break the first emails arrive. A colleague writes succinctly: I see the silenceif you need support, Im here. A handful of others followpeople who know me personally or have been reading my posts for years. Some share similar experiences, describing how theyve faced criticism and learned not to take it to heart. I read each line slowly, returning to the warmest sentences again and again.
In private messages followers mostly ask: what happened? Are you alright? Their tone is caring, surprised for them the channel has become a hub of professional dialogue and support. Im struck that, despite the earlier torrent of negativity, most now reach out sincerely, without demands. Some simply thank me for old posts or recall a piece of advice from years ago.
One evening a young colleague from another city writes a long letter: Ive been reading you since the beginning. Your material helped me land my first role in the field and gave me the confidence to ask questions. That message stays with me longer than the rest; I feel a strange mix of gratitude and a touch of embarrassment, as if someone reminded me of why I started in the first place and Id almost forgotten.
Gradually the tension gives way to reflection. Why does another persons opinion feel so destructive? How could a handful of harsh comments drown out hundreds of calm, appreciative replies? I recall cases from practice: clients leaving frustrated after a poor experience with another specialist, then finding confidence through a simple explanation or tip. I know from experience that support fuels forward movement, whereas criticism merely drains.
I revisit my earliest channel poststexts written with ease, without fear of an imagined tribunal of readers. Back then I wasnt thinking about strangers reactions; I wrote for colleagues as plainly as I would speak at a roundtable after a conference. Those early entries now feel especially alive because they were penned without fear of ridicule.
Nights find me watching the branches outside my window; the dense green canopy seems a solid wall between my flat and the street. Throughout the week I let myself go at a slower pace: breakfasts of fresh cucumbers and radishes from the local market, leisurely walks along the shaded paths of the communal garden after work. Sometimes I chat on the phone with colleagues; other times I sit in quiet for stretches.
By weeks end the inner fear has begun to fade. My professional community proves sturdier than the fleeting wave of negativity; friendly messages and colleagues stories restore my sense of purpose. I feel a cautious urge to return to the channelbut on my own terms: no longer striving to please everyone, no longer feeling compelled to answer every barb.
In the final two days of the pause I examine Telegrams channel settings in detail. I discover I can limit discussions to registered members, swiftly delete unwanted messages, and appoint trusted colleagues as moderators to help manage spikes in activity. These technical tools give me confidence: I now have safeguards for myself and my readers.
On the eighth day I wake early, a calm already settled over me. I sit at the kitchen window, sunlight spilling onto the table and the floor beside the sill. Before reopening the channel to the public, I post a brief note: Friends, thank you to everyone who reached out personally during my break. Im back, a little refreshed. From now on discussions will be limited to group members, and a simple rule appliesmutual respect is mandatory for all participants. I add a couple of lines about the importance of keeping a professional space open for constructive exchange while protecting it from aggression.
My first new post is shorta practical tip on the weeks tricky issue. The tone remains the samecalm and friendly. Within an hour the first responses arrive: thanks for the return, questions about the topic, short supportive comments. One colleague simply writes, We missed you.
A familiar lightness settles inside me, the kind that survived the heavy week of doubt and silence. I no longer need to prove my competence to those who come only to argue; I can channel my energy where its truly welcomedwithin a professional community of peers and followers.
That evening I take another walk as the sun sets: the garden trees cast long shadows on the paved paths, the air cools after the days heat, and from neighbouring houses I hear the usual sounds of people having dinner or chatting on the phone. This time my thoughts drift not to past anxieties but to fresh topics for future posts and ideas for collaborative projects with colleagues from other towns.
I once again feel part of something largerunafraid of random attacks from the outside, confident in my right to dialogue honestly and openly, just as I always have.
