Red Ink and Raised Voices: What are we really teaching?
I hear it over and over again in supervision sessions: 
a mentor who once yelled at a trainee that they were unfit for this profession a senior who scoffed at the intern’s questions someone who snapped, “You should’ve learned this in your bachelor’s.” One that said, “Smart ones can Google and tackle clients,” as if competence lies only in quick fixes. Another claimed, “Tough practitioners don’t break down; they don’t need support.”
This quiet thread of academic superiority and emotional invalidation continues to puzzle me.
I try to empathize with the mentors too, I really do, like I once did with mine. Maybe they were yelled at. Overworked and tired. Maybe they internalized the belief that harshness is the only way to teach. That criticism builds character. That pressure produces excellence. But I wonder: at what cost?
Recently, a friend shared how much she dreaded dictation in Grade 2. No matter how hard she tried, even when she scored 8 out of 10, her effort was met with red ink and the same comment: “You can do better.” These moments, seemingly small, leave lasting impressions. They quietly chip away at self-worth, turning into a lifelong tendency to doubt one’s strengths and abilities.
And we wonder why so many emerging professionals struggle to believe in themselves.
Submitting journal papers for review used to be a nightmare for me, every red mark felt like a wound, every comment a blow to self-worth. Until I met an editor who changed everything. His feedback began with phrases like
✒️ “Would you like to explore…”
✒️ “Do you think we could relook at…”
✒️ “This is your strength, you may want to…”
I still remember crying, not out of hurt, but because of how kind he was.
It was the first time I felt seen, appreciated for my hard work, and gently guided instead of being dismantled. His approach was firm but never demeaning. It taught me that rigor and respect can coexist.
Small changes can make all the difference. I avoid red ink and harsh edits. I pause in supervision to acknowledge effort and name what is going well. I have seen what that does, it restores confidence, rebuilds voice, and creates space for growth.
Validation is not indulgence. It’s foundational.
And sometimes, the most radical thing we can do as educators, mentors, and supervisors is to be kind.
The empathy we cultivate in our sessions must extend beyond, to our fellow practitioners. Because the truth is, we need each other. We can’t do this work alone, and we simply can’t afford to keep breaking the very people meant to help others heal.
What’s one moment of gentle guidance you still remember? Or one moment of harshness that shaped your inner critic?
Let’s talk about the small things that leave big marks. Share here: Empathy in Training