The Weight of Self-Criticism and Grace

Sometimes, I think about the teachers I’ve known, and myself included, who could offer a kind word, a patient explanation, a helping hand to any student who needed it – and then turn right around and beat themselves up for every little perceived failing. It was a peculiar thing, this ability to extend grace outward while withholding it from oneself. I saw it in my colleagues, felt it within myself, and I imagine you’ve seen it too.

It wasn't always about big things, mind you. Sometimes it was something as simple as a misplaced comma on a bulletin board or the way I organized the library books – which, let’s be honest, were never quite as perfect as I wanted them to be. The students would thank me for explaining long division three times in one afternoon; I'd replay those explanations in my head later, convinced I could have done better.

Jerry often chided me about it, bless his heart. He’d say, “You expect so much of others, Margaret, and you hold yourself to an impossible standard.” And he was right, of course. But acknowledging that didn't magically make the self-criticism disappear. It felt ingrained somehow, a habit more than a conscious choice.

My time in Brooklyn with Marcus’s family underscored it in a new light. Watching them – seeing how they navigated challenges together, offering each other forgiveness and understanding without hesitation—it struck me that I wasn't always as generous with myself. They were so quick to offer comfort, to share burdens. It was a beautiful thing, and brought into sharp focus my own internal struggles.

Volunteering at the Fulton Street food pantry has been another salve for this tendency. There’s something profoundly humbling about serving alongside people who are facing real hardships. It puts things in perspective, doesn’t it? Seeing their resilience, their gratitude…it makes those little imperfections I dwell on seem rather insignificant.

Helping sort cans and bagging groceries—that kind of work has a way of stripping away the layers of self-importance we build up over the years. It reminds you that everyone is fighting a battle of some kind, and judging yourself so harshly only adds to the weight.

I've come to believe that true strength isn’t about never faltering; it’s about how you pick yourself up afterward. It’s allowing yourself to stumble, to make mistakes, and to learn from them without that harsh inner voice condemning every misstep. It's learning to say to yourself what you would readily say to a student struggling with a concept – “You tried your best, and that is enough.”

Perhaps, as we get older—as the years accumulate and the perspective shifts—we begin to understand that kindness isn’t just something we *offer* others; it's something we need to cultivate within ourselves. And what a blessing it is to finally realize that.