Cole Escola, creator of the absurd and brilliant musical Oh, Mary!, said something in a recent interview that made me laugh out loud at its raw honesty. He was talking to Amy Poehler about the overwhelming praise the show has received—standing ovations, rave reviews, fans lining up outside the theater just to say thank you. Poehler commented on how exhausting it must be to greet people after every performance, and Cole responded without hesitation:
“I love it. I wrote the thing! People come up and say, ‘I know you hear this all the time…’ and then offer a compliment—but honestly, it’s never enough. I’m working my ass off. I need the validation. I want the feedback after every single show.”
It wasn’t said with arrogance. It was a quiet, almost childlike honesty. A recognition that those words—every compliment, every affirmation—land somewhere deep. They don’t bounce off. They don’t disappear into the air. They matter.
Not long after watching that interview, I came across an article that struck a similar chord differently. It’s called Please Tell Them You Love Them, and it’s as beautiful and simple as it sounds. The author writes about how she finally reached out to a musician whose work had shaped her life—and how absurd it was that she hadn’t done it sooner.
“I mean, it didn’t occur to me until yesterday. Which is ridiculous,” she writes. “There is no height of creative achievement at which praise from strangers loses its value. NONE.”
Au contraire: I’ve watched random fan letters make even ‘famous’ authors’ entire days, weeks, futures. I’ve watched them save people in ways the sender probably couldn’t even imagine. Most of the artists we consider ‘famous’ are not exactly smothered under I Love Yous, after all.”
I loved this! Because it’s true—not just for authors or performers, but for all of us. We assume people are “too successful” or “too established” to need our affirmation. But even the ones who seem untouchable are often just one kind word away from feeling seen again.
That was enough of a nudge. I stopped reading halfway through and did the same thing. I sent notes to a few people whose work I admire. Authors. Podcasters. Artists. I didn’t expect a reply. I didn’t need one. I just wanted them to know.
And it made me wonder: Why don’t we do this more often?
Why do we hoard compliments like they cost us something?
Why do we think admiration has to be silent?
I’ve been thinking a lot about the teachers and mentors who shaped me—people who taught me to think bigger, lead better, speak up. And I realized: some of them have no idea they impacted me. I never told them. Not because I didn’t appreciate them—but because I assumed they knew. Or worse, I told myself it would be weird. Too much. Unnecessary.
But here’s the thing: no one is immune to doubt. No one is beyond the reach of imposter syndrome. And no matter how accomplished someone is, there’s always a moment—usually in the quiet—when they wonder if any of it really mattered.
My wife, Chris, spent eight years as a child sex abuse detective. It was brutal work—heavy, emotionally taxing, and often thankless. After she retired, she received a letter from a jury member on one of her toughest cases. The woman wrote about the impact Chris’s testimony had, not just on the trial, but on the way the jurors processed what they heard. She called Chris courageous. Precise. Human.
I remember watching her read it. The way her shoulders softened. The way her eyes filled. You don’t get that kind of recognition in real time—not in that line of work. Most of the time, you’re lucky if you’re not being criticized.
But that letter reminded her: It wasn’t just hard. It was meaningful.
That’s what words of affirmation do. They interrupt the narrative that what we do doesn’t matter. They disrupt apathy, burnout, and disengagement—not with a motivational poster or a quarterly award, but with something more personal. More human.
“I see you. I value you. You made a difference.”
Those words aren’t soft. They’re powerful.
And we need to use them more.
I’m not talking about performative gratitude, such as empty flattery or LinkedIn humblebrags. I’m talking about genuine, specific, intentional praise. The kind that can’t be automated or AI-generated. The kind that says, “Here’s exactly how you impacted me. And I wanted you to know.”
We assume people know. That the teacher knows they changed our lives. That the friend knows their support got us through. That the co-worker knows their calm during chaos made the day survivable.
But they don’t always know.
And even if they do, hearing it changes things.
Because the truth is, most of us are quietly wondering if any of it really matters. We’re all carrying more than we show. Even the most confident among us have moments of doubt. And on the hardest days, when the work feels invisible or the effort feels thankless, a few kind words can be the difference between burnout and belief.
So why do we hesitate to say them?
Because we’re busy. Because we assume people already know. Because we think it might feel awkward, or too late, or maybe even unnecessary.
But it’s not.
Telling someone they mattered doesn’t just lift them—it reminds you that your life has been shaped by others. That behind every moment of growth was someone who nudged you, challenged you, encouraged you, or simply showed up when it counted. It reminds you that you didn’t get here alone.
And if the people who helped you don’t know what they meant to you?
Then it’s time they found out.
Think about the moments that changed you—the advice that stayed with you, the encouragement that arrived at just the right time, the quiet support that helped you stay the course. Think about the people behind those moments. Now imagine what it would mean for them to know.
That’s what affirmation does. It connects us. It closes the loop. It tells the truth out loud, before it’s too late.
So don’t wait. Please don’t assume they already know. Don’t let your gratitude live only in your memory.
Send the text. Make the call. Write the message.
Tell them they helped you believe in yourself again.
Tell them their work was not wasted.
Tell them their presence in your life mattered.
And then do it again for someone else.
Because the antidote to apathy is connection, and the remedy for doubt is being reminded that our lives leave fingerprints on others—whether we know it or not. Because we all need reminders that our work—our effort, our presence, our care—means something. Especially on the days we’re not so sure.
You have that power. Use it.
If this resonated…
Forward it to someone who has impacted you!
🖤 Onward and upward,
Kristen
