Save the nice things people say (and say them, too)

Lesson #37 of 40

As I approach 40, I’m embarking on a year-long project to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned in four decades of life. This is lesson #37. You can read the full series here.

Bonus life lesson: Invest in cozy sweaters that bring you joy.

Like many a try-hard 20-something, I entered the workforce with a heavy dose of imposter syndrome. I worried that my older, more experienced colleagues wouldn’t take me seriously. That I didn’t belong in conference rooms where big decisions were being made. That I was just one mistake away from humiliation.

For the most part, these insecurities fueled me. They pushed me to work twice as hard, volunteering for tough assignments, listening before speaking in meetings, and triple-checking my work. But sometimes, those nagging doubts — the ones whispering that I didn’t belong — became paralyzing. They made it harder to do my job.

In those moments, my imposter syndrome threatened to become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Perhaps sensing my struggle, my incredible boss at the time let me in on a little secret. She told me that she, too, had moments when the doubts got too loud. And when they did, she had a simple way to quiet them: an email folder labeled “yay me!”

Lila’s “yay me!” folder was packed with proof that she was, in fact, great at her job. She saved messages from higher-ups praising her work on big projects and notes from direct reports expressing appreciation. Kind notes from colleagues, collaborators, even strangers? They all went in that folder, too.

Whenever imposter syndrome reared its head, Lila would open that folder and remind herself of what we all knew: She belonged. And she made work a better place to be.

It didn’t take long for me to create my own “yay me” folder. Over the years, I’ve given it different names, and I’ve lost a few versions tied to old work emails, but the evidence has always been there. I’m good at what I do. The work I create is meaningful. I help people. Even if my inner critic can’t see that, I have proof that others do.

One of the highlights of my 30s was running a leadership program for women in journalism. It wasn’t just professional development — it was life-changing, at least according to the women who went through it. Years later, they’ve made major career moves and still keep in touch with their cohort members.

I loved my job — curating powerful guest speakers, designing a schedule that was equal parts inspiring and practical, sharing my own hard-earned wisdom. The program was highly competitive (more than 600 people applied for the first class of 25), and as its reputation grew, I knew there were several women in the room wondering if they truly deserved to be there.

That’s why, in my opening remarks to each new class, I addressed imposter syndrome head-on. I reassured them that, yes, they deserved to be there and if they doubted it, they would soon read kind comments from their coworkers that they’d receive later in the week.

And on the final day, as they prepared to head back into high-stress work environments, I’d pass along the same tip that had been so graciously given to me.

I told them to create their own “yay me” folders. They could call it whatever they liked, but I encouraged them to collect the evidence that they belonged.

Many of these women were the hardest-working people in their newsrooms. They cared deeply — not just about their own success, but about mentoring their colleagues, supporting their teams, and improving journalism as a whole. They’d made it into this program because they were the best of the best. And yet, they still doubted themselves.

A simple email folder won’t fix everything — there’s certainly a lot to unpack about why so many competent women struggle with self-doubt — but it’s a start.

Work doesn’t play the same outsize role in my life that it once did. Now that I’m a freelancer, I no longer receive emails from bosses or appreciative coworkers. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a sporadic message from a grateful client or someone who stumbled upon my work. I cherish the kind notes I do receive — many of which are from wonderful readers of this newsletter.

A lot of the labor I do these days is invisible and not going to warrant written gratitude. Painstakingly editing my work before sending it to editors. Pulling weeds in the garden. Meeting deadlines. Showing up to appointments on time. Staying on top of my child’s seasonal wardrobe needs.

And although I know I’m good at these things (especially that last one — I process hand-me-downs with the efficiency of a seasoned warehouse worker), I wouldn’t mind a tangible “thank you.”

It makes me wonder: Are there other versions of a “yay me” folder I could create? A notebook where I jot down the times I made someone smile? A jar where Billy and I leave notes of appreciation for each other? These ideas feel clunky and difficult, like extra responsibilities in an already overstuffed life. Which brings me back to lesson #20: There are no gold stars in the real world.

A simple email folder seems almost too small a topic for one of my final lessons. And yet, here we are. It’s not a particularly revolutionary idea, but it matters.

We tend to remember criticism far more than praise. Ask me to recall an unkind comment, and I can rattle off dozens with a kind of perverse glee. But the compliments? Those fade. I remember how they made me feel — briefly warm, momentarily proud — but the words themselves quickly slip away.

It makes sense, then, that every time I revisit my “yay me” folder — which isn’t often, to be honest — it feels like I’m reading those messages for the first time. They always give me a boost, right when I need it most.

I no longer run those leadership programs, but if I did, I’d give one more directive to the women in the room: Make sure you share as many kind words as you receive.

Chances are, they already were. Many of the emails in my folder are from past academy participants. Like a woman who emailed in 2018 to tell me she landed her dream job: “If you ever need very tangible examples of how your passion project changes lives, just point to me.” Or the participant who wrote me, just last week, reflecting on how the program shaped her career:

“In the years since, through some of the more personal struggles in my life, following your journey — your honesty, grace, and strength — was a kind of quiet anchor. It reminded me that everyone is dealing with incredibly heavy life issues, even when they’re not spoken aloud. That reminder has brought me more comfort than you probably know.”

What a message. It’s one I hope to revisit many, many times.

I know how easy it is to read something online and not leave a comment. To think of a friend but not send a message. To enjoy an experience and immediately move on to the next thing.

It always takes more effort to create something than it does to consume it — artwork, books, television shows, meals, even a weeklong leadership academy. In our rush to consume, we don’t always pause to let creators know we appreciate their work.

But when we do, it makes a difference. It pushes back against the self-doubt that plagues the best of us. It gives someone a boost right when they need it most.

If you ever find yourself craving words of encouragement, consider putting some of your own out into the universe. I’m trying to make a habit of sending more quick notes — emails, texts, newsletter comments — whenever I appreciate someone’s work. I hope it lifts them up the way similar messages have buoyed me over the years.

And I really love the thought that, somewhere, an email I sent might be tucked away in someone else’s “yay me” folder, living happily among other kind words.

xoxo
KHG

p.s. I forgot another good reason (hint: $$$) that a yay me folder is helpful! Check out the comments for that tip.