A girl called Maya worked hard on something and did it really well — a teacher praised her, her family was proud, a friend said it was brilliant. By every outside measure, she'd done a great job. But inside, Maya brushed it all away. They're just being nice. It wasn't really that good. I got lucky. Anyone could have done it. Each kind word seemed to slide right off her, while the one tiny thing she'd got wrong stuck like glue and replayed all evening. It's a strange habit she's fallen into: collecting every criticism, however small, and refusing to keep any of the praise. From the outside she looks successful. From the inside, she can't seem to let any of it land.