Think you can slay my dragon? I think NOT.

From time to time, life calls for us to suit up, grab the ol' morning star and broadsword, and storm the castle. Afterwards, as we stand battle-weary and bloody, yet proud of ourselves for a triumphant victory, someone says;
"Really? Man, you suck. You can't even fight your way out of a brown paper bag. How embarrassing for you!"
"Huh?"     
You're a little confused. Everyone else is excited and happy that you saved the castle and its inhabitants from the Evil Villains, and here in front of you is this individual, telling you that you have failed. (Quite rudely, I might add)

You pull off your armet and plackart, letting the heavy steel armor fall to the ground at your feet while you continue to stare blankly into the face of your critic.
Whoa there, negative Nancy....
With their words whispering in one ear, you thoughtfully begin to scrutinize your battle strategy, attempting to figure out if you've been wrong all along and why anyone would so blatantly attack your good intentions. You consider quitting, hanging up your armor in defeat...giving up.

Meanwhile, in your other ear, you hear the townspeople throwing out ecstatic shouts, praising your worth as a strong and mighty defender. You feel empowered by their shouts of encouragement and the chanting of your name. But even then, you find your mind returning to the haunting voice of one nay-sayer over the encouraging cheers of the crowd.

Then suddenly, a cool uplifting breeze penetrates the gaps in your armor plating and refreshes your spirit. (Among other things, because underneath that layer of steel, you're sweating like a pig)  You discover the gusts come from beneath the slow beat of shiny-scaled wings from above, ruffling your hair as the great beast hovers just a few feet from your head.

Monstrous translucent emerald pinions sweep the ground on either side of you and you can feel its fiery breath against the back of your neck. Large plated scales of iridescent greens and blues glitter and sparkle with every movement as the sun reflects across the smooth surface of its massive body.

Your cynic stands petrified before you, mouth agape and frozen in fear as they peer up with wide eyes at the mythical creature hanging suspended in mid-air.

And then unexpectedly, but with considerable eagerness, it lunges... your flailing and screaming critic vanishing within the beast's open jaws. There is an oddly satisfying crunch of bone as they are devoured. Their negativity and derogatory remarks are ground into unidentifiable bites of mush between razor sharp teeth. Finally swallowing what remains of your doom-sayer, a bit of blood dribbles from its lip as it turns its eyes towards you.

You smile and pat its head. "Good job, Dragonowski, good job."
(My dragon has Polish origins)
Your dragon smiles back, nods, winks one plate-sized ruby-red eye in your direction, and flies away.

The moral of the story:
If you believe in your battle, continue to fight with all of your heart and let your dragon take care of the critics.