After the whirlwind of her viral TED Talk, Brené Brown found herself navigating a storm she had never expected.
The spotlight had brought her a tidal wave of recognition, but along with it came the sharp edges of public opinion.
One morning, sitting at her table and scrolling through the latest online commentary, she ventured into the depths of the internet to read the comments on some recent articles about her talk.
What she found was devastating.
The criticisms were personal, cutting deep into her spirit.
They weren’t about her work or her ideas; they were jabs at her very being.
Phrases like
“Of course, she embraces imperfection, what choice does she have?”
“I feel sorry for her kids,” and
“Less research, more Botox” danced on the screen like unwelcome ghosts, echoing her deepest insecurities.
The weight of those words pressed down on her, a familiar heaviness she thought she had shed.
As she scrolled, Brené felt a familiar urge to retreat.
In that moment, the notion of curling up on the couch with her favorite show felt like the safest option.
So she did just that, disappearing into the world of Downton Abbey, where the worries of the real world couldn’t reach her.
But as the hours passed, the end of the show left her with a choice:
Continue numbing herself or confront what was waiting outside the safety of her screen.
Then, while idly searching for the president during the time of Downton Abbey’s storyline, she stumbled upon a quote from Theodore Roosevelt that would shift her perspective entirely.
It was a passage from a speech he delivered long ago, famously known as the "Man in the Arena."
“It is not the critic who counts,” it began.
“Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better."
"The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again…”
In that moment, something shifted within Brené.
The words resonated deeply, reflecting the very essence of her journey as a researcher, a writer, and a woman brave enough to share her vulnerabilities with the world.
She realized that the critics, those who took aim at her from the sidelines, did not understand the true essence of courage and creativity.
They hadn’t dared to step into the arena, to face the risks that come with putting one’s self out there.
Armed with the knowledge that her value lay not in the opinions of others but in her willingness to show up and be present in her life, Brené closed her laptop and prepared to return to her work.
Vulnerability, she knew, was not just about revealing one’s flaws; it was about the strength found in being seen, in daring to create, and in embracing the potential for failure.
Roosevelt’s words had reminded her of what it meant to be a creative spirit, and she was determined to carry that message forward.
It was time to step back into the arena, face her fears head-on, and dare greatly, knowing that in the end, it was her effort, her vulnerability, that truly mattered.
The key lesson is simple but profound: true courage lies in showing up despite the fear of judgment or failure.
Critics will always have their seats in the arena, but their voices don’t define the outcome of your journey.
What matters most is that you take the risk to create, to be seen, and to dare greatly—because the value of your work isn’t determined by applause or criticism, but by your willingness to try.
This post was inspired by Brené Brown's Talk, Why Your Critics Aren't The Ones Who Count.