CRITIQUE: THE PRICE OF TRUST AND THE JOURNEY TO HEALING

 

CRITIQUE: THE PRICE OF TRUST AND THE JOURNEY TO HEALING

There was a woman who had poured twenty-one years of her life into building a reputation—a legacy of excellence, trust, and impact in publishing. Every book she touched became a masterpiece; every author she helped publish became a testimony. Her standard was simple: never compromise on quality, and never separate passion from purpose. But then, one project—her own book—became the stage for her greatest heartbreak.

She had always believed that a printing press should provide the full package—editing, formatting, layout, and printing. After all, that had always been her experience. But this time, things went differently. What was meant to be her crowning project became a source of pain, misunderstanding, and emotional breakdown. The book that should have spoken excellence began to attract critique—not for its content, but for minor imperfections that grew into public embarrassment.

Emotionally, she was crushed. Psychologically, she was drained. Financially, she was stretched. Her heart whispered, “How could this happen after all my sacrifices?” Yet even amid the chaos, she refused to turn bitter. She sought understanding, not vengeance. “Let neutral printing presses review it,” she said, “so I can know where things went wrong. I cannot allow this to happen to another person.” That was not anger speaking—it was the voice of a wounded professional determined to protect her integrity and uphold her standard.

But then came a misunderstanding. The printing press she trusted—an establishment she respected—felt accused. “Ma’am, what does the printing press have to do with their critique of your book?” they asked respectfully. “From my understanding, no one complained about the printing itself. The concerns were only about the cover and a few punctuation marks—issues you personally proofread and approved before printing commenced. Bringing our printing press into question feels unfair and unacceptable.”

That explanation was logical, yet her heart bled. “Sir, did you read any complaint about formatting?” she asked, her tone calm but firm. The truth was, in her publishing world, printing and formatting were inseparable. You could not print what was not first properly formatted. The printing press responded: “But we only print what the client submits. If payment is made for printing alone, that is the only service we provide.”

Her eyes welled up. “You’re wrong, sir. In my 21 years of publishing experience, proper formatting and layout always come before printing. That is the process. This was done for my other books. I have never had to tell my printing partner what to do. They just know.”

It was not pride speaking—it was pain. She had trusted that everything would be handled as usual, that her years of professional relationships guaranteed excellence. “I didn’t need to ask,” she thought. “Every printing press knows what to do.” But this time, trust turned costly.

She sighed, “When I receive the neutral opinion from other printing presses, I promise to share the results. Hopefully, this October by God’s grace.” The printer replied gently, “Ma’am, please understand. We only printed your manuscript because that was what was paid for. Other services like editing, design, or formatting are handled separately.”

Then came the question that cut deep: “Sir, are you putting the blame on me now?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied, “I’m only explaining.”

Her voice trembled, not in anger, but in heartbreak. “All my life in this business, I’ve always ensured everything comes as a full package—to deliver a good product. It’s the duty of the printing press to make sure the full process is complete. It’s not done separately. So because I didn’t include formatting, you just printed it like that?” She paused. “I trusted you. Every printing press knows the right thing to do. It’s not about the cost—it’s about the process.”

She wasn’t trying to win an argument; she was trying to express disappointment. “You will never hurt me—that I know. But it’s a very costly mistake, and I’m spending months repairing my image.”

The printer’s heart softened. “Ma’am, I wanted you to know you’re not going through this pain alone. If only you could see my heart, you’d know how bad I feel about the mistakes that happened. Please be assured—it is well.”

Her reply came slowly, drenched in emotion. “We are all human. The only perfect one is God Almighty. It’s just painful that some people don’t want to see me happy. I give, I sacrifice, I make people happy—yet some hate me for no reason. My heart is pure, loving, and supportive, but not everyone can stand that. I’ve decided to allow God to take control. God will keep fighting for me.”

Those were not just words—they were a wounded woman’s prayer, a professional’s cry for divine comfort.

Then came her counsel, still gracious even in hurt: “Just make sure you always tell your clients the exact services you offer. Most people like me assume the printing press handles everything. It cost me so much to trust that everything was taken care of. My enemies used it to pull me down three days ago. It’s only God who knows the battle I’m fighting to redeem my image and brand. It’s tough.”

The printer replied softly, “Noted, ma’am.”

“Amen,” she whispered. “But it won’t be overnight. It took me twenty-one years to build this brand. Three people want to pull me down overnight. That’s the spirit I’m fighting. I’m paying a huge price for it.”

“Don’t let it break you,” he said.

“I’m trying,” she replied, “but the pain is deep. The two Nigerians involved are heartless. They used the posts to disgrace my work. But God will intervene. I’m in serious pain, even physically. My stress is high, my medical bills are heavy. The cost of healing here in the USA is no joke.”

Then, silence filled the chat for a moment—digital stillness heavy with emotion. The printer’s reply was short but thoughtful: “Just take a deep breath and blow it out to them.”

She answered faintly, “I’m going through a lot. I only want to see healing all round.”

Then she found solace in the Word of God:

“For I will restore health unto thee, and I will heal thee of thy wounds, saith the Lord.” — Jeremiah 30:17 (KJV)

That scripture became her anchor. Healing was no longer just physical—it was emotional, psychological, and reputational. Her wounds were deep, but her faith was deeper.

In African wisdom, there’s a saying: “When trust breaks, even truth limps.” It captures her experience perfectly. She had trusted, but the process failed. Now she must rebuild—not just her brand, but her inner peace.

Another proverb says, “The heart that has been burnt by hot yam now blows on cold food.” It means experience teaches caution. She would never again assume that every printing press knows the “full package.” She would clarify, confirm, and ensure every stage was properly done before printing. Pain had become her teacher.

Her story is not just about a book gone wrong—it’s about the fragility of trust, the cost of assumptions, and the beauty of resilience. She could have blamed, fought, or cursed—but she chose healing, accountability, and reflection.

In her silence, lessons were born:

First, never assume understanding—clarify expectations early.

Second, excellence requires communication. Even trusted partners must still define boundaries.

Third, pain is not punishment—it’s preparation. Sometimes God allows heartbreak to refine character and remind us of dependence on Him.

The printer, too, learned something: every client sees printing differently. Some see it as the final stage, others as the entire production chain. Communication bridges that gap.

It was not a battle between two enemies—it was a painful misunderstanding between two professionals, both wounded by unmet expectations. The woman’s brand may have suffered temporarily, but her authenticity and grace preserved her dignity.

As days turned to weeks, she kept meditating on Psalm 34:18:

“The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — KJV

Gradually, healing began—not from public validation, but from divine assurance. She realised that the value of a person is not measured by one mistake but by how they rise from it. She was learning to walk through fire without smelling of smoke.

Her enemies thought they had won, but she whispered, “God will rewrite my story.” And He did. For every post that tried to mock her, a new testimony was born. For every tongue that criticised, a new door opened. The same book that caused tears became a tool for transformation.

Life’s irony is that pain often purifies purpose. Out of ashes come authors, and from broken trust come stronger partnerships. Her journey reminds us that professionalism is not just about skill—it’s about empathy, truth, and humility.

In her reflection, she concluded:

“I forgive everyone. But I will also learn. I will continue to trust—but wisely. I will still publish—but prayerfully. I will love—but with discernment.”

She understood what the African elders meant when they said, “The child who falls learns to walk carefully.” Her fall was not the end—it was the beginning of a wiser climb.

And though the world saw her pain, heaven saw her strength. She kept moving, not because it was easy, but because giving up would betray the God who kept her.

As she closes this chapter, her heart echoes Isaiah 61:7:

“For your shame ye shall have double; and for confusion they shall rejoice in their portion.” — KJV

She knows her story is not over. The scars will one day shine as symbols of strength. Her book, her brand, her integrity—all will rise again.

And perhaps, when another young author or publisher faces a similar trial, her story will whisper hope to them: “You will survive. You will heal. And one day, you will smile again.”

Because at the end 

of it all, as the elders say, “No matter how long the night, the day will surely break.” 🌅