The Two Men
What Feedback Reveals About Who We Are
Two weeks ago, I received two pieces of feedback.
One felt like oxygen.
The other felt like drowning.
Same word—”feedback”—but completely different energies. And the timing was almost too perfect, like the universe handing me a mirror and saying:
Pay attention. This matters.
Let me tell you about the two men.
The First Man: The Mountain
More than 20 years ago, on New Year’s Day, I stood on a mountain in Italy with a guy I’d just met on the bus on our way to my first ever mountain trip. He was teaching me to snowboard.
I was terrible. Falling. Frustrated. But then, for a moment, I felt it—the mountain, the board, the flow. He helped me see it. Not with instructions, but with presence. He didn’t need anything from me. He just wanted me to feel what he felt.
That guy went on to build Printify, one of Latvia’s unicorns. Sold it. Now invests in startups.
Last week, I sent him my pitch deck for a new SaaS platform we’re building—ship inspections, alternative financing, the whole thing. I was proud of it. My partners and I had put in real work.
He gave it a 6 out of 10.
He was direct. Almost brutal. “This is old school. You won’t get past the 50 other applicants they see every day. Update this. Clarify that. Put in more work here.”
And you know what?
I felt grateful.
Not defensive. Not hurt. Grateful.
Because his feedback wasn’t about him. It wasn’t personal. It was clean. He didn’t need anything from me. He was just showing me the mountain again—20 years later, same energy.
Here’s what you’re missing. Here’s what you need to see.
The Second Man: The Sophisticated Mask
Around the same time, a different situation unfolded.
My wife and I run a relationship club — a space for people to dig into the deeper patterns sabotaging their connections. It’s not a comfort zone. It’s a laboratory.
A man joined. Older. Divorced. Twice. Life in shambles.
And here’s the thing: he would admit it.
On the surface, he was open. Vulnerable, even. He’d talk about his struggles. His failed relationships. His pain.
He knew the language. He could intellectualize his trauma beautifully.
But knowing about your wound is not the same as feeling it.
He started spamming the group chat — giving advice, sharing his insights, positioning himself as someone who “gets it.” Especially in front of the women in the group. The subconscious move:
I’m the feeling man. I’m doing the work. I’m suitable.
He also started messaging me privately. Asking for personal advice. Pushing for free consultations. One step toward vulnerability, two steps back into control.
I helped him. Gave him suggestions. Then I set a boundary.
“Thank you for reaching out. If you want to go deeper, we can do a separate consultation. Book a session, and we’ll dive in.”
I also set a boundary in the group chat. Gently, but clearly.
Because the boundary wasn’t about shutting him down. It was about pushing him toward full immersion.
Our space isn’t about talking about your trauma. It’s about sitting in it. Feeling it. Letting it move through you instead of managing it with your mind.
His response?
“You’re too controlling. You’re like a dictator. This club doesn’t align with my values.”
And then he left.
Here’s what was really happening:
He was operating from victim energy — but he couldn’t see it.
He would admit his struggles. But the moment the work required him to stop intellectualizing and start feeling, his ego stepped in. His shadow took over.
One step forward: “Yes, I’m broken.”
Two steps back: “But YOU’RE the problem for pushing me.”
He wasn’t resisting the truth. He was resisting the depth of the truth.
He wanted to be seen as the man doing the work — without actually doing the work.
And when I held the boundary that would require him to go deeper, his subconscious programming kicked in:
This is unsafe. This is attack. Retreat. Blame. Protect.
He confused my boundary with control because his system couldn’t tell the difference between:
A dictator (someone controlling you for their benefit)
A boundary holder (someone protecting the space so real work can happen)
The accusation he threw at me—”You’re too controlling”—was actually about himself.
He was the one trying to control the space. Control the narrative. Control how vulnerable he had to actually be.
I was just holding the container.
But to someone operating from victim energy, any boundary that pushes them toward their real wound feels like dictatorship.
The Difference
Same week. Two men. Two pieces of feedback.
One said, Here’s what’s missing in your work. Fix it.
The other said, You’re the problem.
One felt like help.
The other felt like an accusation.
Why?
Because one man had something. The other had nothing.
The Printify founder is content. Successful. Happy. He doesn’t need anything from me. So his feedback is clean. No agenda. No emotional charge. Just truth.
The relationship club guy? Drowning. Terrified. Desperate to be seen as “the feeling man” because actually being vulnerable — actually feeling the wound instead of talking about it—felt like death.
So when I set a boundary, he experienced it as an attack.
And here’s the kicker: his accusation was actually a confession.
He was the one trying to control. Position himself. Avoid the deeper work. Hide behind spiritual language.
I was just holding the container.
But to someone operating from scarcity and fear, any boundary feels like dictatorship.
The Cultural Wound (It’s Not Just Soviet)
I grew up in post-Soviet Latvia. We have a specific trauma around authority.
For 50 years, authority meant oppression. Boundaries meant danger. Speaking up meant deportation or death.
So we learned: Don’t set boundaries. Don’t stand out. Don’t challenge. Suffer in silence.
The result? Generations of people who help without compensation, give without reciprocity, and burn out while resenting everyone around them.
We confuse holding space with controlling people.
We’re terrified of being “the dictator,” so we become doormats.
But here’s what I’ve realized: this isn’t just a Soviet problem.
In the West right now, there’s a different version of the same wound.
The fear of being “judgmental.” The obsession with “accepting everyone.” The refusal to call out bullshit when it’s right in front of you.
Self-censorship. Self-suppression. Boundaries dissolved in the name of “equality” or “inclusion.”
And the result? The same suffering. The same resentment. The same inability to tell the difference between help and attack.
When we’re afraid to set boundaries, we let the people who need them most call us dictators.
What I Learned
I’m grateful for both experiences. Genuinely.
The first man reminded me what clean help looks like. No charge. No need. Just truth.
The second man taught me something even more important:
Setting boundaries will always trigger the people who need them most.
And that’s okay.
Because here’s the deeper truth I didn’t fully understand before:
Not all feedback is about you.
Some feedback is oxygen. It helps you see what you couldn’t see. It sharpens you. You feel energized, even if it stings.
Other feedback is projection. It’s the other person talking about themselves, their fear, their unhealed wounds. And they’re handing it to you, hoping you’ll carry it.
The difference is in the feeling.
When someone gives you feedback that lands clean — even if it’s critical, even if it’s “6 out of 10” — you feel gratitude. Because they saw you. They want you to succeed. They don’t need anything from you.
When someone gives you feedback that feels murky, heavy, accusatory — that’s not about you. That’s about them. And your job is not to carry it.
Your job is to hold the boundary.
The Laboratory Principle
In our family of 11 children, boundaries are not optional. They’re love.
If I don’t hold boundaries at the dinner table, chaos wins. If I let one kid dominate, the others suffer. If I avoid conflict to “keep the peace,” resentment builds.
Boundaries create the space where connection can happen.
The same is true in business. In relationships. In any space where real work is being done.
The uncomfortable truth?
Some people will leave when you set boundaries.
Let them.
Because the ones who stay — the ones who can receive clean feedback, who can sit with discomfort, who can tell the difference between help and attack—those are the people you want in your life.
Those are the people you can build something real with.
The Question
So here’s what I’m sitting with now:
Who in your life gives feedback that feels like oxygen?
And who gives feedback that feels like drowning?
The difference might tell you everything you need to know.
Not just about them.
About you.
About whether you’re willing to hold the boundary.
About whether you’re ready to stop carrying other people’s fear.
Twenty years ago, a man on a mountain taught me to feel the board beneath my feet.
Last week, he taught me to feel the difference between help and accusation.
I’m still learning.
But I’m grateful for the mountain.
And I’m grateful I finally learned to let the drowning man go.