One of the most useful and memorable courses I took during my medical lab science undergrad was one on teaching. As part of it, we had to teach a full lesson to our peers, which was video recorded for review. But here’s the twist: the professors weren’t the ones reviewing the recordings. Our peers were.

We were put into groups of three. One person taught and had to provide a self-reflection on their own teaching. Another gave feedback to the teacher on both their teaching and their self-reflection. And the third person observed the feedback session itself, and gave feedback on the quality of the process. 

There was one key rule: you couldn’t give feedback outright. You had to ask questions that guided the person to their own realizations. It was a masterclass in how to give and receive feedback. But more than that, it was a lesson in how to self-reflect with rigour and humility.

That’s something often missing in organizing spaces: the ability to receive feedback and self-reflect. Without them, serious harm can be done, especially by those in positions of power, whether through control of resources or social capital.

Community feedback for community work can be a form of care. When it’s directed toward organizations and leaders in positions of power, it takes courage, heart, and labour to name something the leaders might not have noticed or chosen not to. Because community organizing should be what it sounds like: organizing with community, for community.

The risk is high because feedback disrupts peace. The more critical the feedback, particularly toward those with material power and control, the greater the risk of ostracization or penalty. But if someone in the community is still willing to take that chance, take it as a sign that they care about the community’s future. If they’re offering feedback while staying engaged in your organizing, take it as a sign they want both you and your organization to succeed, and trust that you have the capacity to grow.

Yes, some of that critique can be hard to process, because critique is inherently uncomfortable. It forces us to reckon with what we’ve missed and where we’ve gone wrong, especially in community organizing, where so much of the work comes from ourselves, our intentions, and our identities. It pushes us to self-reflect.

Unfortunately, time and again in organizing spaces, feedback, no matter how gently phrased, carefully positioned, or quietly delivered, and regardless of whether it comes from inside or outside, is taken as a personal attack. Especially in community organizing spaces where personal and professional boundaries blur, leaders often forget that they are not acting as individuals, but representatives of an institution with power. So the feedback is treated as a violent force, as if it were as harmful as the oppressive systems the organization is supposedly fighting.

It’s like a body with an overactive immune system: it misdirects its defenses and ends up attacking itself, rather than the actual infection.

They’d rather smash the mirror and pollute the water than see their own reflection. Critique is treated as a flaw rather than an invitation to improve.

Instead of asking, “What made this person speak up? What are they trying to say? Why did they leave?” The focus becomes, “How can we make them stop? How do we minimize the damage?” Not the damage to the community, but their power, ego, and identity.

Words get thrown around: “inappropriate conduct,” “values misalignment,” “violation of boundaries,” “irreparable harm,” “stop dividing the community,” “stop picking on me.” The self is victimized. Blame is externalized. Tone is policed. People are banished. Accountability is evaded.

In some cases, organizational leaders, including some who hold multiple marginalized identities, may invoke their personal backgrounds or lived trauma in ways that deflect responsibility. When this happens, feedback even when offered with care is reframed as oppression, and the person offering critique is automatically positioned as the oppressor. 

For example, a woman of colour in a leadership position might cite gendered or racial harm to shut down a conversation that names harm she’s perpetuated through her organization. A leader with a disability might misframe calls for accountability as ableism, even when the critique is about their use of institutional power. 

This dynamic does not mean that all people with marginalized identities behave this way, and most do not. Nor does it negate real experiences of harm and trauma. But when identity becomes a shield instead of a lens for reflection, it can undermine ethical leadership and the shared struggles of others who hold those same identities. What’s at stake isn’t just individual or institutional reputations, but the integrity of collective justice work.

In the end, everyone loses, simply because people are unwilling to self-reflect. The organization doesn’t transform. Its leaders don’t change. In fact, they may double down on their mistakes, driven by pride and denial. Power is abused to protect power. “Boundaries of safety” are stretched to shield fragile egos. Walls of defensiveness harden. A quiet culture of fear takes hold—fear of being seen as disloyal, fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of naming what’s wrong. Well-meaning individuals disappear. Some are pushed out. Others fade away in quiet disillusionment. And the community, the one everyone claimed to be working for, inevitably suffers.

Maybe the mirror isn’t the enemy, but people’s unwillingness to face what it shows. When we choose to pollute the water to escape our reflection, we risk becoming monsters desperate to silence truth by poisoning the very well that feeds us all.