Ever since I started freelancing, I’ve made a habit of never re-reading anything I’ve published.

Not blog posts, not articles, not even pieces written about me in major publications. It’s not that I hate my writing or don’t care about improving it. It's that every time I look back at my work, I just start rewriting in my head. That sentence could be stronger. That idea doesn't quite land. That example feels flat.

The constant internal revision was exhausting. So I just... stopped looking.

Until last week. While updating my portfolio, I finally made myself sit down and read through years of my writing. I listened to podcast interviews I'd done. I read feature articles written about me and my work.

Here's what I didn’t expect: The pieces I was most proud of weren't the safe ones where I'd taken every bit of feedback. They were the ones where I'd protected certain elements—even the unconventional ones—despite pushback. The ones where something in me had said "no, this stays" and I'd actually listened.

That's when I realised something: Maybe those defensive reactions we're taught to push down aren't the problem. Maybe—just maybe—these reactions are trying to tell us something we need to hear.

When your gut fights back

Look, we all know the script when it comes to feedback. Someone pulls you aside and says:

"Come on, don’t take it so personally." "Just take the feedback and smile." "They're only trying to help, you know." "You gotta grow a thicker skin."

From day one, we learn that defensive reactions are flaws that need fixing. That being "professional" means nodding along with a smile while someone picks apart your work. That good creatives welcome all feedback equally.

Here's what no one tells you: Sometimes those defensive reactions are right.

Sure, feedback can be valuable. But our obsession with "constructive criticism" has created a culture where questioning feedback makes you difficult. Where "collaboration" means making your work palatable to everyone. Where "killing your darlings" is treated like some kind of creative commandment.

No wonder we've learned to doubt our instincts. No wonder we default to external validation over internal conviction.

But here's what I'm learning: There's a crucial difference between protecting your ego and protecting your work. One holds you back. The other might be exactly what makes your work worth reading.

Ego defense is about protecting your self-image. It flares up when you feel attacked or misunderstood. When feedback threatens not your work, but your sense of self. This is what turns potentially helpful suggestions into personal attacks.

Creative defense, though, is different. It kicks in when feedback threatens to remove what makes your work distinctive. Those unexpected elements that feel risky but right: an unusual structure that makes your story more powerful, a controversial perspective that adds value, or a distinctive voice that fits your message perfectly. Worth fighting for? Hell yes.

But here's the thing: You don't need to shut down those defensive feelings. You just need to figure out what they're really saying.

Reading your own warning signs

I've learned there's a world of difference between protecting your ego and protecting something that matters in your work. Here's how to know which is which.

Start with the feeling itself. ****Creative defense feels laser-focused—you can point to specific elements and explain why they matter to the work. You find yourself saying things like, “This particular choice matters because…” Ego defense feels scattered and personal. Everything feels like an attack, you’re worried about looking bad, and you catch yourself thinking, “They just don’t understand me.”

Pay attention to feedback language that might signal a threat to your work's essence:

• “This isn't how it's usually done”
• “People might not get it”
• “It's too different from your other work”
• “Maybe make it more conventional”

These phrases often mask the real question: Should you make your work more forgettable?

But the real test is what happens next. With creative defense, your conviction grows clearer over time. The more you reflect, the more certain you become about what matters and why. Your reasoning gets sharper, not fuzzier. You're willing to change other elements, but you know exactly which parts need protecting. Ego defense does the opposite—time gives you perspective, the initial sting fades, and you often find yourself thinking, "Maybe they had a point.”

When it's ego defense:

• You resist all feedback, not just specific elements
• You find yourself defending choices you can't quite explain
• You're more concerned with how you'll be perceived than how to improve the work
• The more you sit with it, the less certain you become

When it's creative defense:

• You can identify exactly what you're protecting and why
• You're open to feedback that doesn't threaten the core elements
• Your conviction deepens with reflection
• You can explain how this element serves the whole

Here's your gut-check: Can you explain why this specific element matters to the work as a whole? Does your resistance feel clearer or fuzzier after sleeping on it? If you're getting clearer rather than more uncertain, your defensive reaction might be pointing to something worth protecting.

When to stand your ground (and when to listen instead)

So what do you do with this knowledge? First, get clear about when to hold firm in the face of criticism, and when to step back.

Stand your ground when:

• Your defensive reaction holds up to the gut-check questions above
• The feedback would remove what makes your work distinctive
• You can explain how this element serves the work's purpose
• The "problem" others see is actually intentional
• Your conviction grows stronger with time

Try this instead:

"Thanks for catching that. The reason I did it this way is [your actual reasoning]. I'm happy to polish the execution, but this particular element is doing important work here.”

When to step back and listen:

• The pushback feels more personal than practical
• You keep hearing the same thing (from people who aren't all viewing it through the same lens)
• You're struggling to explain why this choice matters
• Someone's spotted actual technical problems
• Your conviction keeps wavering the more you sit with it

A gentle way to take feedback on board:

"I appreciate you sharing that perspective. I need some time to think about how to address these points while keeping what's working.”

Look, playing nice doesn't mean saying yes to everything. It means picking your battles wisely. Every piece worth reading has something distinctive about it—that's what makes people remember it. Your job isn't to defend every single choice, but to protect the ones that give your work its spark.

It all comes down to choosing what's worth protecting. Most feedback won't kill your work's spirit. But some will. Learning to tell the difference is what separates work that lasts from work that fades.

Defending what matters

Remember how I mentioned never re-reading my published work? Now I understand what was really happening. It wasn't just about avoiding criticism—it was about protecting the parts of my work I wasn’t yet confident enough to defend. By not looking back, I thought I was keeping those pieces safe.

But here's what I've learned: You can't protect your work by hiding from it. You protect it by understanding what makes it valuable and learning to defend those elements thoughtfully.

Now when I look at my writing, I see it more clearly. Some pieces could be stronger, sure. But the ones that still resonate? They're the ones where I trusted my instincts about what mattered. Where I knew which elements to protect, even when it felt uncomfortable.

Your defensive reactions aren't flaws to overcome. They're signals trying to protect what makes your work worth reading. Your job isn't to silence them—it's to understand what they’re telling you.

Next time you feel that instinctive resistance to feedback, pause. Get curious rather than guilty. Ask yourself: What am I actually trying to protect here? What is this reaction trying to tell me?

Looking back at my own work taught me something I wish I'd known years ago: Your instincts get sharper every time you trust them. Maybe it's time we started listening.

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