How to Respond When People ‘Critique Your Baby’

I sent this text after the presentation:

I think that went well? The client was a little quiet.

My colleague replied quickly:

Yeah, went great. Only reason she was quiet was ‘cause she was in the car. She may wordsmith a few things, but we’re 98% of the way there.

And then I admitted what I didn’t really want to say:

Ok cool, thanks for the reassurance. Weird how sometimes I get anxious during these presentations.

That’s when he dropped the line:

People are critiquing your baby.

If you’ve written fundraising copy for more than a minute, you know the feeling.

You pour yourself into the work—hours of interviews, pages of notes, deep dives into the offer, the ask, the voice. You get the rhythm just right. You finally nail the opening line. You reread it aloud, just to feel the cadence in your bones.

Then comes the silence on the Zoom call. Or the forwarded feedback email. Or the dreaded, “Can you take another pass at this?”

It’s not just your copy they’re critiquing. It’s something you crafted. Something you wrestled with. Something you believe in.

Something that—if we’re honest—feels a little (ok, a lot) like your baby.

Why it feels personal

Neuroscience gives us a clue why this all feels so charged.

When you create something, your brain doesn’t just light up in the regions associated with language and problem-solving. It activates something we’ve talked about before: the default mode network, or the part of the brain linked to self-referential thought, memory, and identity.

This means when you write something meaningful, your brain quite literally associates it with who you are.

So when someone critiques your copy—especially if they do it carelessly—it doesn’t just feel like they’re questioning your words. It can feel like they’re questioning you.

But here’s the thing: they’re not. At least, not most of the time. This is where solid theology gives us something neuroscience can’t.

Even though your brain ties your writing to your identity, if you’re a Christian, who you are is already spoken for. It’s not up for grabs. Not on the page, not on the call, not on the cutting room floor.

“You are not your own; you were bought at a price.” (1 Cor. 6:19–20)

You are God’s. You are hidden with Christ in God (Col. 3:3). That means the stakes are lower than they feel. The work matters, but it doesn’t define you.

That’s why we can hold it loosely.

How to not be a “precious creative”

I’ve worked with many of them, and they’re miserable: precious creatives.

These are the writers and designers who can’t stand being told their baby is ugly—because underneath it all, they’re just hiding insecurity behind perfectionism.

But as believers, we don’t write to impress. We write to serve and to steward. That means we can write with conviction, then let go with humility.

Here’s how I try to walk that line:

1. Write fast, edit slow.

Get the raw, unfiltered version down first, then shape it with care. One is breath. The other is craft. God works through both.

2. Ask questions—with humility.

Don’t walk into feedback blind. Come with questions: “Did the CTA feel clear?” or “Did the first line land?” Stay curious—and humble. No matter how long you’ve been doing this, you still have room to learn.

3. Remember: feedback is fuel.

Even if it stings. Especially if it stings. Iron sharpens iron (Prov. 27:17), and sometimes, God uses critique not to hurt us, but to grow us.

4. Pray over the draft.

Before you write one word. Before you hit send. Before the presentation. Not to baptize your brilliance, but to ask God to use your words, your willingness—and yes, even a potential rewrite—to build his Kingdom.

The work is you, but it’s not all of you

Every good fundraising writer brings their whole self to the page.

But if we’re not careful, we’ll start to believe that feedback equals failure. That every edit is a judgment. That every rewrite is a rejection.

Don’t go down that road. I’m telling you this as much as I’m telling myself:

You are not your subject line. You are not your open rate. You are not your killer tagline.

You are a messenger. A servant. A steward of truth that deserves to be handled with reverence and released with open hands.

Because at the end of the day, your copy may be your baby, but it’s not your identity.

It never was.