I Got Trolled While Having A Piss. It Changed Everything.

Projekt Rattloch Week 21.

That Comment That Made You Delete Your Post? Let’s Talk About It

You know the feeling.

You finally share something. A painting. A poem. A half-finished sketch you’d been sat on for months. Your heart’s doing that annoying thudding thing as you hit publish. And then you wait.

Someone comments. Your stomach flips. You tap the notification.

And it’s not kind.

I was having a piss in a pub last week. Yes, I’m that person who can’t even wee without checking my phone, judge away. When I saw this gem on one of my videos:

“Genuinely never seen worse art your whole page man”

The grammar alone deserves a blocking. But I won’t pretend it didn’t sting.

Here’s the thing though: I’ve been showing work publicly for years. I’ve had people tell me my art changed their day. I’ve had gallery owners shake my hand. And I’ve had strangers on the internet tell me I’m categorically shit. Both things are true. Both things are just opinions.

But this isn’t really about me. It’s about you. And that thing you’ve been hiding.

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Why Does One Cruel Comment Outweigh Twenty Kind Ones?

Think about this honestly. If that same commenter had written, “You’re a bird,” I’d have laughed. Obviously I’m not a bird. I don’t believe I’m a bird. The comment would’ve slid right off.

But “your art is the worst”? That found a crack.

Because somewhere, quietly, a small part of me wondered if he was right.

And that’s the bit that matters, for you as much as for me. Criticism only wounds us when it confirms a fear we’re already carrying. The comment doesn’t create the doubt. It finds the doubt that was already there, curled up in the corner, waiting.

Which means the stranger typing from his sofa at 11pm isn’t your problem.

Your problem is the story you’ve been telling yourself long before he showed up.

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You’ve Been Auditioning for Approval You Don’t Need

Here’s what nobody tells you when you start making things: you will never, ever reach a point where everyone likes your work. Not when you’re starting. Not when you’re established. Not when you’re dead and they’re fighting over your estate.

Van Gogh sold one painting in his lifetime. One. People thought he was a talentless mess. Now his work sells for hundreds of millions and causes people to weep in galleries.

The Brontë sisters published under male pseudonyms because no one would take women writers seriously. Now their novels are studied in every English-speaking country on earth.

Basquiat was dismissed as graffiti. Hockney was told he was too “decorative.” Every single person you admire faced a version of “genuinely never seen worse.”

And they kept going anyway.

Not because they were certain. But because they decided their work mattered more than the opinions of people who weren’t makng anything.

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The Freedom Hiding Inside the Fear

Here’s the counterintuitive truth: once you accept that criticism is inevitable, it loses most of its power.

You stop waiting for permission. You stop polishing the thing endlessly, hoping that this version will finally be immune to judgement. You stop auditioning for an audience that doesn’t exist. The mythical crowd who will unanimously adore everything you make.

That crowd isn’t coming. And that’s actually brilliant news.

Because it means you’re free.

Free to make the weird thing. The unfinished thing. The thing that might not work but keeps pulling at you anyway. Free to let your work be what it is, imperfect, alive, and yours, rather than what you think it needs to be to avoid the comments section.

The people who love what you make? They’re waiting. They can’t find you if you keep hiding.

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The Only Opinion That Actually Matters

I told my mate about that comment. He’s an artist too, the kind who doesn’t suffer fools. He went full defensive on my behalf, ready to hunt the bloke down and explain a few things about composition.

But here’s what I’ve realised: someone else’s reaction to your work is just that. Their reaction. Filtered through their day, their taste, their own creative frustrations, their relationship with thier mother, who knows.

It says almost nothing about your work. And it says everything about the story they’re telling themselves.

Your job isn’t to make something no one can criticise. That thing doesn’t exist.

Your job is to make something true. Something that matters to you. And then be brave enough to let it exist in public where the right people can find it.

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So Here’s What I Want You to Do

You’ve got something, haven’t you? A sketch in your notebook. A draft in your files. A canvas leaning against the wall that you keep walking past.

You’ve been waiting until it’s ready. Until you’re ready. Until you’re sure no one can pick it apart.

But that day isn’t coming. And the longer you wait, the heavier the fear gets.

So start now.

Share one thing you’ve been working on. Not when it’s perfect. Not when you feel confident. Now, while it’s still a bit scary.

Drop it in the comments. Post it on your own page and tag me. Send it to one person you trust.

Just get it out of hiding.

Because the world doesn’t need more perfect art. It needs more brave artists.

And you’re already braver than you think. You just haven’t proved it to yourself yet.

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What’s the thing you’ve been sitting on? I want to see it.