Returning to Herself
Emma liked to start each morning with the kitchen window thrown wide. In early spring the air was crisp, a soft golden glow settled on the sill, and from the neighbours garden came the chatter of early walkers and the brief warble of a robin. While the coffee brewed, she powered up her laptop and, as a first order of business, opened Telegram. Over the past two years the channel had become more than a work tool; it was a sortof diary of professional musings. She shared tips with colleagues, answered followers questions, and untangled the usual snags of her fieldalways politely, never preachy, and with a healthy dose of patience for other peoples mistakes.
On weekdays her schedule was pencilled in to the minute: video calls with clients, document checks, endless emails. Yet even between tasks she found a moment to glance at the channel. New messages popped up regularlysome people asked for advice, others thanked her for a clear explanation of a tricky issue. Occasionally a subscriber suggested a topic for a future post or recounted a personal story. After two years Emma had grown used to the community feeling like a genuine support hub and a place to swap knowhow.
Mornings passed calmly: a few fresh questions in the comments of the latest post, a couple of thankyou notes for yesterdays piece on legal nuances, a colleague sharing a link to a fresh article. She noted a handful of ideas for upcoming posts, closed the tab with a smile, and braced herself for a busy day ahead.
Around lunchtime Emma slipped back into Telegram during a short break after a call. Her eyes snagged on a strange comment beneath a new posta name she didnt recognise, a sharply edged tone. The author accused her of unprofessionalism and called her advice useless. She decided to ignore it at first, but an hour later she spotted a handful of similar remarks from other users, all written in the same accusatory, dismissive style. The themes repeated: alleged errors in her material, doubts about her credentials, sarcastic jabs about theorists tips.
Emma tried to reply calmly and with sources, laying out the logic behind her recommendations. Yet the tide of negativity grew: fresh comments alleging dishonesty and bias, even hints of personal dislike and mockery of her writing style.
That evening she attempted a distraction with a walk: the sun was still up, the air gentle, the scent of freshly cut grass drifting from the back garden. But thoughts kept drifting back to the phone screen, rehearsing possible replies. How could she prove her competence? Was it worth proving anything to strangers? Why had a place that once felt safe turned into an avalanche of judgement?
In the days that followed the situation only worsened. Every new post attracted dozens of identical critical comments and snide jokes; the earlier thankyou notes and constructive queries grew scarce. Emma found herself checking messages with dreadher palms grew slick at each new notification. Late at night she stared at the laptop, trying to pinpoint what had triggered such a reaction from her audience.
By the fifth day she struggled to concentrate at workher mind kept looping back to the channel. It felt as if years of effort might be reduced to nothing by a flood of mistrust. She stopped replying to comments almost entirely; every word seemed too vulnerable, too unbalanced. A loneliness settled in the space that had once felt friendly.
One evening she opened the channel settings. Her fingers trembled more than usual; she held her breath before hitting the disable comments button. Then she typed a brief note: Friends, Im taking a oneweek break. The channel will be paused while I rethink how we chat. The final lines were hardest to writeshe wanted to explain everything in detail, to apologise to loyal readers, but there were no more energy left.
When the pause notification popped up over the message feed, Emma felt a mix of relief and emptiness. The evening was warm; the kitchen window let in the fresh smell of garden herbs. She shut the laptop and sat at the table in silence, listening to the street voices and wondering whether she could ever return to the work that had once brought her joy.
At first the quiet after disabling the channel felt strange. The habit of checking messages lingered, but alongside it came a sense of ease: no need to defend, no need to craft perfect replies for everyone.
On the third day of the pause the first messages arrived. A colleague wrote succinctly: Ive noticed the silenceif you need support, Im here. A few more followedfrom people who knew Emma personally or had been reading her posts for ages. Some shared similar experiences, talking about their own bouts with criticism and how hard it was not to take such attacks to heart. Emma read these slowly, lingering over the warmest lines.
In private chats followers mostly asked, What happened? Are you okay? Their words were full of concern and surprise: for them the channel had become a place of professional dialogue and support. Emma was taken abackdespite the earlier wave of negativity, now most messages were genuine and undemanding. A few even thanked her for old posts or recalled a tip that had saved them years ago.
One evening a young associate from another city wrote a long email: Ive been with you almost from the start. Your material helped me land my first job in the field and gave me confidence to ask questions. The note lingered longer in Emmas mind than the rest; a strange blend of gratitude and slight embarrassment washed over her, as if someone reminded her of a purpose shed almost forgotten.
Gradually the tension gave way to reflection. Why had a handful of spiteful comments been so destructive? Why did a dozen nasty remarks eclipse hundreds of calm, thankful ones? She recalled moments when clients, bruised by previous bad experiences, found reassurance in a simple explanation or a welltimed tip. She knew from experience that support fuels forward motion far more than criticism, which often just pulls you back.
Emma revisited her earliest channel poststhose written freely, without fear of an imagined jury. Back then she hadnt thought about strangers reactions; she wrote for colleagues as plainly as she would speak at a roundtable after a conference. Those early pieces now felt especially alive precisely because they were born of confidence, not of terror of being mocked.
At night she watched the leafy branches outside the window; the dense green seemed a solid wall between her flat and the street. Throughout the week she allowed herself to slow down: mornings began with a leisurely breakfast of cucumber and radish from the market, afternoons included strolls along the shady paths of the back garden. Occasionally she chatted on the phone with coworkers; other times she simply sat in silence for stretches.
By weeks end the inner fear had begun to fade. Her professional community proved sturdier than the fleeting wave of negativity; friendly messages and colleagues stories restored the feeling that her work still mattered. Emma felt a cautious desire to return to the channelthis time without the urge to please everyone or to answer every barb.
In the last two days of the pause she dug into Telegrams channel settings. She discovered she could restrict discussions to registered members only, swiftly delete unwanted comments, and appoint trusted moderators from among her peers to help manage sudden surges. These technical tools gave her confidence: she now had a way to shield herself and her readers from a repeat of the earlier drama.
On the eighth day Emma rose early, feeling calmno inner pressure clouding her mind. She opened the laptop by the kitchen window; sunlight already bathed the table and a strip of floor beside the sill. Before reopening the channel to all subscribers, she posted a short note: Friends! Thank you to everyone who supported me personally and by email. Im back, a bit refreshed: discussions are now limited to group members; the new rule is simplemutual respect is mandatory for all participants. She added a couple of lines about keeping the professional space open for constructive exchange while protecting it from aggression.
Her first new post was briefa practical tip on a thorny issue of the weekdelivered in her usual calm, friendly tone. Within an hour the first reactions rolled in: thanks for the return, questions on the topic, short supportive comments. One colleague simply wrote, Weve missed you.
Emma felt a familiar lightness inside, a feeling that hadnt vanished despite the tough week of doubts and silence. She no longer needed to prove her competence to those who only wanted to argue; now she could channel her energy where it was truly wantedinto the professional community of peers and followers.
That evening she took another sunset walk: the garden trees cast long shadows on the pavement, the air was cool after the days sun, and the windows of nearby houses released the familiar hum of dinner conversations and phone calls. This time her thoughts drifted not to anxiety but to fresh topics for future posts and ideas for collaborative projects with colleagues from other towns.
She once again felt part of something largerunafraid of random external attacks, confident in her right to converse honestly and openly, just as she always had.
