Apricot Words

What a Friend’s Simple Phrase Taught Me About Inner Criticism

I went for a walk yesterday because it was sunny, and I hadn’t slept well the night before, and I was in a grumpy, miserable mood.

Sometimes I like being in a grumpy, miserable mood. I know that sounds insane in this happiness-is-everything era we live in, but sometimes it feels cozy, and comforting, calling for a blanket and a lie-down, the way a gloomy day might. But not yesterday.

Yesterday, I was caught in a “will I ever get this” spiral about an article I struggled to write, inciting a fury of self-doubt.

I couldn’t seem to find the right tone, the right opening, the right anything. Every sentence felt wrong, and with each failed attempt, the voice in my head grew sharper, snarking that maybe I wasn't cut out for this after all.

So, I went for a walk in the sun, in a place that is so beautiful it feels verboten to be grumpy, and halfway in, I bumped into a friend, who was in a much better mood than I was.

Years ago, when I first met this friend, I knew I needed to be her friend. She is different from me. She says these simple statements that catch my attention—words I would never say because they’re thoughts I would never think. There’s a sincerity to them, a kind of emotional clarity that comes naturally to her but feels foreign to me. A lightness to contrast my rigidity, like air to my earth.

I’ve always felt a subtle pressure to qualify my words, to prove I’ve followed the rules and will keep following them. That kind of unfiltered sincerity has always felt like exposure—a kind of softness I’m not sure I’m allowed to show

Do you ever hear words but see them in color? Letters a distinct shade against a black background? I do. Not all words, just certain ones. I know that’s weird, but I do.

Every once in a while, my friend says a sentence, and her words appear the color of apricot. Warm, energetic, soothing, much like a late spring day.

Being near her, even for a moment, warmed my sullen, grumpy mood. I asked about her day, and she pulled a stack of Polaroids out of her pocket, explaining a new photography technique she was trying. She flicked through the stack casually, shaking her head mildly as she realized none of them had come out as she intended.

It’s okay, she said, I’ll get it, though.

There they were. Apricot words.

Words warm enough to soothe, calm enough to settle.

I hung on her words as she continued to look through each Polaroid. Every one of them was blank. Blank, like my deserted pages. Blank.

But where I saw a blank page as a failure, she saw her blank Polaroids as part of the process. They were curiosities, not indictments.

It was as though two roads diverged in a wood, and I took one, and she the other. Neither of our attempts had worked that day. She was compassionate, optimistic, curious, and persistent.

I, on the other hand, was despondent, frustrated, and on the verge of giving up.

We spent a few more minutes together before leaving to pick our children up from school. As we parted ways, her words replayed in my head.

It’s okay. I’ll get it, though.

I’ve long been familiar with the work of psychologist Carol Dweck, and the difference between growth mindset and fixed mindset, and I’ve long identified as a growth-minded person. I value learning. I believe people can change. I believe goals are reachable with effort.

It wasn’t until the apricot words, however, that I understood that although I have a growth mindset, my inner critic does not.

My inner critic doesn’t believe there is a process to learning. She believes in proof. When I falter, she doesn’t whisper words of encouragement. She says, “You should’ve gotten it by now.” She sees setbacks as evidence of impending failure. My inner critic hasn’t caught up to the wiser parts of me that understand learning is nonlinear. And when she speaks, I forget she is not me.

In a way, my friend's words became more than just words—they became a symbol of an alternate mindset.

Setbacks do not need to be proof of my potential, and it’s okay to trust that things will come together with time and patience.

Perhaps, when I look back on this, it will be those apricot words that remind me that language—whether spoken by someone else or myself—holds an energy of its own. Just like the colors we associate with certain moods or feelings, words can carry warmth or coldness. They can build or tear down, comfort or wound.

And in that moment, her words, glowing softly in my mind, reminded me of the power of kindness and patience in the way we speak to ourselves—and how, with a simple phrase, we can shift the energy we carry.

Maybe next time I’m stuck, which I assume will be soon, I’ll borrow her phrase. Maybe I’ll tell myself, gently: It’s okay. I’ll get it, though.