The Post-It That Stayed With Me

A few years ago, I had to give a presentation as the culminating project for a leadership fellowship. I had spent a year working with a wonderful cohort, researching neuroscience and exploring how art could be used as a tool to make Jewish texts more approachable for learners of all ages. I poured my heart into the project.

I also poured my heart into the cohort itself. One of the unique gifts of cohort-based learning in Jewish education is the depth of relationships that form. I believe this type of learning requires emotional investment: the stronger the cohort, the richer the experience. I was the person who looked forward to group dinners and coordinated travel plans, and in this case, organized activities around NYC. I know that level of enthusiasm can sometimes feel like a lot, so I expected occasional resistance, but I wasn’t prepared for what happened on the day of my presentation.

As part of the opening activity for our closing seminar, we were asked to list the identities that defined us. I wrote down things like "mother," "educator," and "social worker." Then we walked around the room, adding Post-its to each other’s papers with qualities we saw in one another. On mine, people added words like "advisor," "confidant," "educator," "creator," and "caring." But one Post-it stopped me cold.

It said: Dictator.

I was flooded with shame, anger, and an overwhelming sadness. I couldn’t understand why someone would write that—especially anonymously, right before I was about to present something I had worked on so deeply.

I’ve never been the most self-confident about my professional work, and that single word stuck with me. Ever since, I’ve carried a nagging worry about how I come across in group settings—whether in person or even in something as small as a group chat. When I confided in close friends from the cohort, they couldn’t understand it either. My intention was never to be pushy; I only wanted to bring people together.

It has taken me years to process and heal from that moment. You might wonder, “Why be so fixated on one Post-it?” But it wasn’t just the Post-it. It was the way it made me feel—like I had embarrassed myself, like my efforts to connect had backfired. That single note shifted how I related to others, leaving a mark that lingered long after the fellowship ended. I even left the group chat, and the sting of it still remains.

Research has shown that criticism that feels personal—especially when it touches on one’s character rather than actions—can feel far more painful than professional critique. Psychologists often call this identity-based criticism, and studies show it activates the same regions of the brain associated with physical pain. What makes it so hard to shake is that it feels like an attack on who you are, not just what you did.

At the same time, research on resilience suggests that people begin to heal from personal criticism when they can reframe the experience. Practices like self-compassion, seeking feedback from trusted allies, and storytelling—narrating the event in a way that highlights one’s values rather than one’s shame—can help soften the impact. In fact, studies in social psychology suggest that sharing painful experiences with empathetic listeners helps reduce the emotional weight, while bottling it up tends to make the hurt linger.

For me, the healing has come slowly. In fact, I hadn’t spoken about that Post-it to anyone since the day it happened. Keeping it buried only deepened the wound, and over time it caused irreparable damage, not only to my professional confidence but also to the way I related to others in that professional space. I found myself holding back, second-guessing whether my efforts to connect would be received as genuine or as “too much.” Relationships that could have grown deeper instead became more distant, because I no longer trusted that my presence would be welcomed.

And yet, resilience has a way of reshaping pain into something survivable. What I’ve learned is that resilience isn’t about “getting over it” or pretending the hurt never happened;
it’s about finding ways to live with the experience without letting it define me completely. For me, resilience has meant seeking out colleagues and friends who see me clearly, anchoring myself in work that reflects my values, and slowly relearning that my desire to connect is not a flaw but a strength. The sting of that Post-it may never disappear, but I continue to build a counterweight: relationships rooted in trust, meaningful contributions that reflect who I really am, and the quiet courage to keep showing up.