I always start my mornings with the kitchen window thrown open. In this part of the year the air is brisk, the sill catches a soft wash of sunshine, and from the courtyard beyond I can hear the early footsteps of passersby and the brief trill of a robin. While the kettle is drawing up the coffee, I fire up my laptop and, as a matter of habit, open Telegram. Over the past two years this channel has become more than a work tool; it feels like a personal log of professional observations. I share tips for colleagues, answer followers questions, and untangle the typical snags of our fieldalways politely, never preachy, with patience for anyones mistakes.
On a weekday my schedule is mapped out almost minute by minute: video calls with clients, document checks, endless emails. Even in the gaps I still peek at the channel. New messages appear regularlysome asking for advice, others thanking me for a clear explanation of a tricky point. Occasionally a follower suggests a topic for the next post or tells a story of their own. After two years Ive grown accustomed to the community being a genuine space of support and knowledgeexchange.
The morning passes quietly: a few fresh questions under yesterdays post, a couple of thankyou notes for the legalnuance piece I posted, a colleague sending a link to a fresh article on the subject. I jot down a few ideas for future posts, smile, and close the tab, ready for a busy day ahead.
Around lunch I return to Telegram during a short break after a call. My eye is caught by a strange comment under the new post: an unfamiliar name, 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 notice several more messages of the same vein from different userseach written with a similarly accusatory, dismissive air. The themes repeatalleged errors in my material, doubts about my credentials, snide remarks about theoryonly advice.
I try to answer the first comment calmly and with evidence, pointing to my sources and explaining my reasoning. Yet the tide of negativity soon swells: new accusations of dishonesty and bias appear, some tinged with personal dislike, others mocking my style.
That evening I try to distract myself with a walk: the sun has not yet set, the air is gentle, the scent of freshly cut grass from the communal lawns drifts past. Still, my thoughts keep looping 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 and calm erupt into such a torrent of judgement?
In the days that follow the situation only intensifies. Every new post is met with dozens of identical, derisive comments; the handful of grateful notes and constructive questions have almost vanished. I find myself checking the channel with a knot in my stomach, my palms getting clammy at each notification. Late at night I stare at the laptop, trying to pinpoint what triggered such a reaction from my audience.
By the fifth day it becomes hard to focus on workthe channel replays in my mind over and over. It feels as though all the years of effort might be reduced to nothing by this wave of distrust. I almost stop answering comments entirely; each word feels exposed, each sentence too fragile. I sense an odd loneliness within the space that once seemed friendly.
One evening I go into the channel settings. My fingers tremble more than usual; I hold my breath before I press the button that disables comments. I type a short note: Friends, Im taking a weeks break. The channel will be paused while I rethink how we communicate. Those final lines are the hardest to writeI want to explain everything, to justify myself to my regular readers, but I have no energy left.
When the pause notification pops up over the message feed, a mixture of relief and emptiness washes over me. The evening is warm; a breath of fresh garden scent drifts in through the cracked kitchen window. 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.
The quiet after turning off comments feels strange at first. The habit of checking for messages lingers, but now theres also a sense of release: no need to defend, no need to tailor every sentence to please everyone.
On the third day of the pause the first personal messages 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 longtime readers. Some share similar experiences of facing criticism, talking about how hard it is not to take such attacks to heart. I read these slowly, often returning to the warmest lines.
In private messages followers ask, What happened? Are you okay? Their tone is caring and curious; for them the channel was a hub of professional dialogue and encouragement. Im surpriseddespite the earlier flood of negativity, most now reach out sincerely, without any demands. A few simply thank me for old posts or recall a particular tip from years past.
One evening I receive a long email from a junior colleague in another city: 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 lingers longer than the rest; I feel a strange blend of gratitude and a touch of embarrassment, as if Ive been reminded of something important that I almost lost sight of.
Gradually the tension gives way to reflection. Why did a handful of spiteful comments feel so destructive? How could a few bitter notes drown out hundreds of calm, appreciative responses? I recall moments from my practice: clients arriving upset after a failed experience with another adviser, then finding steadiness through a simple explanation or tip. I know from experience that support fuels progress more than criticism; it gives people the strength to keep going even when quitting seems easier.
I revisit my earliest channel poststhe ones written with ease and no fear of an imagined tribunal. Back then I didnt think about strangers reactions; I wrote for colleagues as plainly as I would speak at a roundtable after a conference. Those early pieces now feel especially alive because they were crafted without fear of being mocked.
At night I watch the branches outside my windowthe dense green canopy a solid wall between my flat and the street. This week I allow myself to move at a slower pace: breakfast is a leisurely bowl of sliced cucumber and radish from the market, I walk the shaded paths of the communal gardens after work, I sometimes chat on the phone with peers, sometimes I sit in prolonged silence.
By the end of the week the internal fear begins to fade. My professional community proves sturdier than the fleeting wave of negativity; friendly messages and colleagues stories restore the sense that what I do matters. I feel a cautious desire to return to the channelbut this time without the need to please everyone or to answer every jab.
In the final two days of the pause I explore Telegrams channel settings in depth. I discover I can limit discussions to registered members, quickly delete unwanted messages, and appoint trusted colleagues as moderators to help manage spikes in activity. Those technical tools bring confidence: now I have a way to protect both myself and my readers from a repeat of the earlier storm.
On the eighth day I wake early, a calm clarity settling over me without any internal pressure. I open the laptop by the kitchen window; sunlight already lights the table and a swath of floor beside the sill. Before reopening the channel to all followers, I write a brief note: Friends, thank you to everyone who supported me personally and by email. 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 add a few lines about the importance of keeping the professional space open for constructive exchange while shielding it from aggression.
The first new post is shorta practical tip on a tricky issue of the weekits tone unchanged: calm and friendly. Within an hour the first responses appear: thanks for the return, questions about the topic, brief words of encouragement. One comment simply reads, Weve missed you.
I feel that familiar lightness inside once moreit survived the heavy week of doubt and silence. I no longer need to prove my competence to those who only come to argue; I can now direct my energy where its truly welcomedin the professional community of peers and readers.
That evening I step out for a walk at sunset: the garden trees cast long shadows on the paved paths, the air cools after the days sun, and the windows of nearby houses let out the ordinary sounds of dinner conversations and telephone calls. This time my thoughts drift not to anxiety but to fresh topics for upcoming posts and ideas for collaborative projects with colleagues from other towns.
I am again part of something largerunafraid of random attacks from the outside, confident in my right to dialogue honestly and openly, just as I have always done.
