I have always begun my mornings with the kitchen window flung wide. In those early spring days the air was crisp, a soft amber light spilled over the sill, and from the neighbours garden I could hear the muffled chatter of early walkers and the brief warble of a blackbird. While the coffee percolated, I would fire up my laptop and, as first habit, open Telegram. Over the past two years that channel had become more than a work tool; it was a sort of diary of professional observations. I posted advice for fellow solicitors, answered questions from subscribers and unpacked the usual snags of our fieldalways courteously, never preachy, and with patience for others mistakes.
My weekdays were scheduled to the minute: video calls with clients, document checks, endless emails. Yet even between tasks I slipped a glance at the channel. New messages arrived regularlysome asked for guidance, others thanked me for a clear explanation of a thorny point. Occasionally a subscriber suggested a topic for the next post or shared a personal anecdote. After two years I had come to regard the community as a genuine space for support and exchange.
Mornings passed calmly: a handful of fresh questions under the latest post, a couple of thankyou notes for yesterdays piece on recent case law, a colleague sending a link to a fresh article. I jotted down a few ideas for future posts, closed the tab with a smile, and faced a busy day ahead.
At lunch, after a client call, I returned to Telegram during a short break. My eye caught a strange comment under the new posta unfamiliar name, an abrupt tone. The author accused me of unprofessionalism and dismissed my advice as useless. At first I ignored it, but an hour later I saw several more messages of the same vein from other users, all written in an equally accusatory, contemptuous style. The themes repeatedsupposed errors in my material, doubts about my competence, sarcastic jabs about theoretical advice.
I tried to answer the first remark calmly and with sources, explaining the logic behind my recommendations. Yet the tide of negativity only grew: new comments surfaced alleging dishonesty and bias, some hinting at personal dislike or mocking the way I phrased my posts.
That evening I attempted to shake the feeling with a walk. The sun had not yet set, the air was gentle, and the scent of freshly cut grass drifted from the back gardens. Still, my thoughts kept looping back to the phone screen. In my mind I rehearsed possible replies. How could I prove my competence? Should I even bother proving anything to strangers? Why had a place once built on trust and calm been overtaken by a avalanche of criticism?
In the days that followed the situation worsened. Every new post attracted dozens of identical scathing comments; the grateful notes and constructive queries grew scarce. I began to stare at notifications with a knot in my stomach; my palms grew damp each time a new alert chimed. At night I stared at the laptop, trying to discern what had provoked such a reaction.
By the fifth day it became hard to concentrate on workthe channel replayed in my mind relentlessly. It felt as if years of effort might be rendered meaningless by this flood of doubt. I stopped replying to comments; each word now seemed vulnerable or insufficiently measured. I sensed a loneliness within a space that had once felt friendly.
One evening, with trembling fingers, I opened the channel settings. I held my breath before pressing the button that disables comments. Then I typed a brief note: Friends, Im taking a weeks pause. The channel will be temporarily closed for a rethink on how we communicate. The last lines were the hardestwanting to explain everything in detail, to justify myself to loyal readers, yet lacking the strength to do so.
When the pause notification floated over the message feed, a mixture of relief and emptiness washed over me. The evening was warm; a breeze through the kitchen window carried the scent of fresh herbs. I shut the laptop and sat at the table in silence, listening to the street voices and wondering whether I could ever return to the work that had once brought me joy.
Adjusting to the silence after disabling the channel took time. The habit of checking messages lingered, but alongside it grew a sense of ease: I no longer had to defend, justify, or craft phrasing to please everyone.
On the third day of the pause the first private letters arrived. A colleague wrote succinctly: I see the channels quietif you need support, Im here. This was followed by several more messages from people who knew me personally or had followed my posts for years. They shared similar experiences of criticism, spoke of how hard it is not to take such attacks to heart, and sometimes simply thanked me for past advice. I read those words slowly, returning to the warmest lines again and again.
In private chats subscribers most often asked, What happened? Are you alright? Their tone was caring and surprised; for them the channel had become a hub of professional dialogue and support. I was taken abackdespite the earlier wave of negativity, now the majority reached out sincerely, without demand. Some even recalled old posts that had helped them years ago.
One evening a young solicitor from a town up north sent a long email: Ive been reading you since the start. Your material helped me land my first job and gave me the confidence to ask questions. That letter lingered longer than the rest; it stirred a strange blend of gratitude and modest embarrassment, as if someone had reminded me of a purpose I had nearly forgotten.
Gradually the tension gave way to reflection. Why had a handful of harsh comments outweighed hundreds of calm, thankful ones? I recalled cases where clients arrived upset after a poor encounter with another professional, only to regain confidence thanks to a simple explanation Id offered. From experience I knew support fuels progress far more than criticism; it supplies the stamina to keep going even when quitting seems easier.
I reread my earliest poststhose written freely, without fearing imagined judgement. Back then I hadnt considered strangers reactions; I wrote for colleagues as plainly as I would speak at a roundtable after a conference. Those early notes now felt especially alive precisely because they were born of fearlessness.
Nights found me watching the dense foliage beyond the window; the green canopy seemed a solid wall between my flat and the street. Throughout the week I allowed myself to linger: mornings began with a leisurely breakfast of fresh cucumbers and radishes from the market, afternoons were spent strolling along the shaded pathways of the courtyard after work. Sometimes I chatted on the phone with colleagues; other times I sat in prolonged silence.
By weeks end the inner fear began to fade. My professional community proved sturdier than the fleeting wave of hostility; friendly messages and colleagues stories restored my sense of purpose. I felt a cautious desire to return to the channelbut this time without the urge to please everyone or to answer every barb.
In the final two days of the pause I explored Telegrams channel settings in depth. I discovered I could restrict discussions to registered members, swiftly delete unwanted remarks, and appoint trusted colleagues as moderators to help manage spikes in activity. These technical tools brought confidence: I now possessed means to protect both myself and my readers from a recurrence of the earlier turmoil.
On the eighth day I awoke early, a calm settled over me without pressure. Sunlight already lit the kitchen table and the floor beside the sill. Before reopening the channel to all followers, I posted a short note: Friends, thank you to those who supported me personally and by letter. Im returning to the channel, a little refreshed: discussions are now limited to group members; the new rules are simplemutual respect is mandatory for all participants. I added a couple of lines about the importance of keeping a professional space open for constructive exchange while shielding it from aggression.
The first new post was briefa practical tip on a tricky question that had surfaced that week. The tone remained my usual calm, friendly one. Within an hour the first responses appeared: thanks for the return, queries about the topic, short supportive comments from colleagues. One simply wrote, Weve missed you.
I felt that familiar lightness inside again; it had not vanished despite the week of doubt and quiet. I no longer needed to prove my competence to those who came only to argue. Now I could direct my energy where it was truly welcomedin a professional community of peers and readers.
That evening I walked out again at sunset: the trees in the courtyard cast long shadows on the paved paths, the air was cool after the days sun, and the windows of neighbouring houses released the usual sounds of families at dinner or phone conversations. This time my thoughts drifted not to the anxiety of recent days but to fresh ideas for future posts and potential collaborations with colleagues from other cities.
I once more felt part of something largerwithout fear of random attacks, confident in the right to hold a dialogue as honestly and openly as I always have.
