Your praise is killing me

If you asked her how often I disappoint her, my mother would likely say “never.” And that makes her a liar.

In high school, I was invited to numerous evening functions that recognized me and other students for our academic and athletic achievements. Almost every high school students goes to these kinds of events at one time or another.

In my freshman year, I was supposed to attend the annual season-ending dinner reception for the high school’s soccer teams. It’s one of those times where parents and students dress a little nicer than the typical day and go hear the coaches say nice things about each player as they receive a certificate or medal of some kind.

As my parents and I were walking toward the high school for the dinner, I suddenly stopped in my tracks and said, “I really don’t want to go inside.”

My parents looked befuddled for a moment. “What do you mean?” Mom asked.

“I don’t think I played well this season, and I just don’t feel like being recognized for it,” I said. “I really don’t want to go in.”

My father, who was a varsity girls coach at another high school in the county, backed my play (probably because he was a day or two away from sitting through one of these dinners himself). “David doesn’t want to go, so let’s just go home.”

Mom, who was wearing her usual proud parent attire, complete with pearls, was clearly annoyed. “I don’t understand why you don’t want to go to this dinner. I like to see my children be recognized for their accomplishments.” That was motherly code for, “I don’t care if you want to go. I want to go.”

Despite my mother’s chagrin, I won the debate in those few minutes and we went home before the team dinner even began.

I don’t receive praise or flattery well. I don’t really do much better with compliments. If someone told me they thought I was a “genuinely nice guy,” I’d have a hard time keeping my mouth shut and would more likely speak what’s on my mind: “Why in the world do you think that?”

When I was undergoing chemotherapy for lymphoma a few years ago and had shared the news with friends via Facebook, I got far too many messages from people I hadn’t heard from in years telling me how much of a “fighter” they thought I was or that I was “always a great guy” (the latter often came from people who didn’t realize that having cancer isn’t the same as losing to cancer). Even under the circumstances I was facing at the time — when people were just saying positive things because they didn’t know what else to say — it was driving me mad.

It would be very easy to chalk this up as some kind of self-esteem issue that I seemingly can’t or am unwilling to shake. But in a childhood where I dedicated myself to the idea of “work hard and ye shall be rewarded,” I didn’t think I lived up to whatever praise was sent my direction. I wasn’t deserving of it.

My general opinion of myself is that I can always do better, and more often than not, that leads me to feeling like I failed. I set a metaphorical ceiling that is considerably higher for myself than for others because I’ve always wanted to be more than just a tiny speck in the universe.

Recently, I learned a better lesson. I left a very challenging job as a Web editor at a nonprofit professional society in January after nine years. In this role, I edited content for all of the nonprofit’s websites, designed and implemented the daily social media strategy, and wrote features and profiles for a monthly news magazine. It was three jobs in one that I felt I was never going to master, no matter how many books and blogs I read on time management and digital media shortcuts.

The nonprofit hired me one more time to cover its annual conference out in Anaheim, California, last week. This was an event that I had attended six or seven previous years, where I filmed keynote presentations, interviewed attendees on camera and shot roughly 500 photos of all the event’s happenings.

I announced in January on the nonprofit’s social network that I was departing, prompting members to write comments and messages thanking for me for my service and complimenting my work. I initially took this mass response as a passive engagement — it’s social media, after all — and didn’t take much time to reply in kind. I nodded to myself after reading each message, shut down my computer and walked away to start my next chapter.

As fate would have it, I ended up at this event one more time. At least 1,600 professionals and students attend this event every year, and because of my work on social media, my name and face were known to almost all of them. So it was a four-day period of people spotting me and running up to say “hello” and express their surprise over seeing me back.

“What are you doing here, David? Wait … are you back? You didn’t leave us after all?”

I thought these were ridiculous questions, to which I responded across the board, “Just freelancing,” which was true.

By the end of the event, during the awards dinner and dessert reception for the membership, I did my regular duty of taking a photo of each award winner for the nonprofit’s records. Most of these members were people I have worked with at one time or another during those nine years, whether they were sources for a news story or they were regular social media enthusiasts.

This is where my short-lived return got nuts. I had one member, a columnist for the same monthly magazine, tell me he owed me an apology because he didn’t move fast enough on becoming a regular blogger when I spent two years explaining the benefits of such a habit. He now blogs about his expertise on LinkedIn’s Pulse (I did recommend Medium almost immediately), but he said he felt terrible that he didn’t listen to me earlier and follow-up. He gets it now, and thanked me for the suggestion regardless.

Another member didn’t recognize my face, but saw my name on my tag and remembered my voice: the moderator of about 100 webinars in my time with the nonprofit. He said my voice was distinct and that I should really consider starting a podcast. “As soon as I think of something to say on a regular podcast, I think I’ll give that a shot,” I replied.

A third member in line for photos struck me with the atom bomb of compliments: He claimed he attempted to post a petition online to get me back to the nonprofit. A freaking petition! The only thing that could have made that idea more striking to me was if he added that everyone who wanted me back should dump buckets of ice water all over themselves, which is — as we’ve all learned now — meant for much more important matters.

All of these words of kindness were met with a “thank you,” a nod and/or a handshake. I kept it professional, but inside, I was in agony. I wanted these people to just stop because they were contradicting everything I believed about my work at this nonprofit: It wasn’t good enough, no matter how hard I tried.

I went back to my hotel room that night and cried. Like a child with a stomach ache. It was a good, long cry — the kind of cry that would prove to single women that I’m a sensitive guy, but I would never, ever want one to witness. Lots of waterworks. Could have gotten me an Oscar in any other context.

As I move on to a new chapter in my professional life, this recent trip did an amazing service in helping me close the previous chapter. It showed me that my work really did matter. I may not have known the difference between my own success and failure at the time, but I know now that what I did for the nonprofit and its members mattered.

Nine years is a long time nowadays to spend in one job or with one organization or business. It gets longer when you think you haven’t done anything well. This lesson is one of those rare times in life when it’s an absolute pleasure to be wrong … when you learn that what you do matters. That someone gives a damn.

Mom would be proud that I finally figured that out. Looks like I owe her a dinner.