That feeling after you hit publish. That restless, uncertain, exposed feeling after you share something. And you ask yourself… “why did I do this again?”
I’ve felt it lately — a lot. Publishing something on my blog every day. Yesterday’s post on “Going fast.” The Loom demos I recorded. The Slack threads I chimed in on. Even now, writing this.
I call it The Cringe.
It’s chaotic. It’s uncomfortable. It’s confusing. And for me, at least — it’s unavoidable. It’s the natural aftermath of making something, sharing it, and then sitting with the silence.
Wondering how it landed. Wondering how you landed. Wincing at what someone might be thinking, or feeling.
It’s an awful, strange, predictably unpredictable mix of:
- Anxiety
- Anticipation
- Embarrassment
- Excitement
- Fulfillment
- Pride
- Regret
- Relief
- Shame
…and then some.
It never feels clean. But it does fade (eventually).
And after doing this long enough, I’ve come to recognize it. Accept it. I’ve been here before. It’s just part of the process — the price of admission for making something and sharing it with someone else.
The cost of caring
Ultimately, The Cringe exists because we care.
We want it to be good. We want it to connect. And for many of us, there’s still a part inside that hasn’t fully separated who we are from what we made.
That separation — between identity and idea, self and output — is a lifelong practice. And every time we hit send or publish, we get another chance to practice. Another round of strange, tangled emotions to work through.
Some days, we wish we could feel less. Just make, release, and move on. But deep down, we know that wouldn’t feel right either.
I’ve often shared the idea that “you are not your idea.” And I believe that — truly. But I also know how hard it is to live it. Not just in theory, but in feeling.
I try to honor that principle. Some days it’s easier than others. But here’s what I’ve learned: you don’t overcome The Cringe by avoiding it. You get better at moving through it.
You expect it. You greet it — begrudgingly — when it shows up. You sit with it in the emotional waiting room while it yells at you, until it gets bored and leaves. And when it does, you’re left with the best parts of making and sharing:
The connection you sparked. The care you poured in. The pride in something imperfect — but finished.
And then, somehow, you’re ready to do it all again.
It's over...
There’s a clip I always remember — an interview with Trey Parker, one of the creators of South Park. He was talking about how absolutely terrible he felt while finishing an episode.
“I’ve lost it. I don’t know how to do this anymore,” Trey said.
Hearing him say that? Unbelievable.
Trey felt that way? The creative force behind South Park — a show I’ve been watching since August of 1997? The co-creator of The Book of Mormon (musical)? That Trey?
“Please. I was begging them not to let it go on the air,” he continued.
“I don’t want the South Park legacy to be ruined. This show is going to ruin it — because it’s so bad.”
They aired it anyway. Trey was devastated. Depressed. He couldn’t sleep. He was convinced they’d finally blown it.
That terrible legacy ruining episode aired on October 4, 2006.
It was “Make Love, Not Warcraft.”
It became a fan favorite. One of their best of all time. And definitely one of my favourites as well.
Keep cringing
That feeling — The Cringe — isn’t really a “problem” problem. It’s part of the process. It’s the price you pay for showing up.
For making something. For letting it be seen.
It means you cared enough to try. Brave enough to share. Human enough to feel all of it — even the weird, tangled stuff.
So yeah. Keep creating. Keep sharing. Keep cringing.
It’s not the clean part of the process. But it’s the real part. The honest part. The part that reminds you: you’re alive, you care, and you’re doing the thing.