When I get hate mail, I get really down on myself, and I read it

Hear now the words of Nikki Reed, whose voice echoes the struggles of many souls upon this earth. She said: “When I get hate mail, I get really down on myself, and I read it to my mom, and my mom is like, ‘So what? Who cares? These people don’t know you, so you can’t take the praise or the hate to heart.’” These words are not the careless musings of a passing moment, but a reminder carved into the stone of human experience. For they speak of the eternal battle between the world’s judgments and the inner self, a battle as old as man himself.

The ancients knew well the sting of voices raised in scorn. For just as the flame warms or burns depending on how close one stands, so too do the words of others either uplift or wound. Yet Reed, guided by the wisdom of her mother, reveals a truth: the voices that come from afar, from strangers who do not know the soul’s journey, have no true power unless we grant it. To accept their hate is to carry poison not meant for us; to clutch their praise is to bind oneself with chains of gold no less dangerous than iron.

Consider the tale of the philosopher Socrates, who was condemned not for crimes, but for stirring the hearts of men with questions. His accusers poured forth their hate, cloaking it as justice. Yet he drank the cup of hemlock not with bitterness, but with serenity, declaring that what truly mattered was the state of his own soul, not the voices of the crowd. He understood, as Reed’s mother reminds us, that the opinion of the multitude is fleeting as smoke, and only the truth of one’s own being endures.

But let us not think only of the great philosophers. Even in the quiet homes of our ancestors, this wisdom rang true. Imagine a farmer whose neighbors mocked his ways, saying his methods were foolish, his fields barren. Yet in the season of harvest, his granaries overflowed, while their tongues, once sharp, fell silent. The farmer had not lived for their praise, nor despaired at their scorn; he lived for the steady rhythm of his labor and the quiet knowledge of his heart.

The quote carries within it the tender strength of a mother’s counsel. In the stillness of her words—“Who cares? These people don’t know you”—there is a shield forged not of steel, but of love and perspective. It is a reminder that the only ones who may speak with authority over our worth are those who truly walk beside us, who know the valleys we have crossed and the burdens we carry. The rest are shadows at the edge of the firelight, murmuring without knowledge, without truth.

From this teaching arises a lesson for all who hear: guard your heart from the shifting winds of praise and hate alike. Let neither lift you into false pride nor cast you into despair. Instead, root yourself in the soil of your own integrity, in the quiet certainty of your purpose. For just as the tree does not sway with every bird that lands upon its branches, so too must the soul stand firm, unmoved by the fleeting cries of others.

In practice, this means choosing whose voices we allow into our inner chambers. Seek counsel from those who know you deeply, as Nikki Reed turned to her mother. Record your victories not in the applause of strangers, but in the truth of your own progress. When hate comes, pause, breathe, and let it pass through you like wind through reeds. When praise comes, accept it with gratitude, but do not let it define you. For you are not the creation of their voices—you are the creation of your own deeds, your own spirit, your own unwavering path.

Thus the wisdom is clear: live neither for the world’s fleeting judgments nor against them, but beyond them. In this way, the heart is freed, the spirit unburdened, and life itself becomes a song not sung for the crowd, but for eternity.