Stephen Curry’s Son Asks: “Why Did Some People Hate You, Dad?” — His Answer Will Break Your Heart

The Mirror Rule: Steph Curry, Canon, and the Lessons of Criticism

It was a quiet Tuesday night in the Bay Area. Steph Curry sat at the dinner table with his family, surrounded by warmth and laughter. Issha had cooked chicken with sweet potatoes—one of their favorites. Riley, now 21, was animatedly sharing college stories; Ryan, 18, showed off volleyball training clips. But Canon, the youngest, was uncharacteristically quiet, picking at his food, lost in thought.

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Steph noticed immediately. “Canon, you okay, buddy?” he asked gently.

Canon looked up, his eyes reflecting a confusion and sadness that pierced Steph’s heart. The kind of look children give when they’re first confronted by the unfairness of the world.

“Dad,” Canon began, hesitant but determined, “I was watching some old videos of you on YouTube. And then I read some comments.”

Steph’s stomach tightened. He knew where this was headed, and it wasn’t a place he wanted to take his children.

“Why did some people hate you so much when you started in the NBA?” Canon asked, voice trembling with genuine perplexity. “Like, I read comments from people saying horrible things about you—calling you lucky, saying you didn’t deserve to be there, that you were too small, too weak. Why were people so mean?”

The table fell silent. Riley and Ryan stopped eating, waiting for their father’s answer. Issha placed her hand on Steph’s arm—a silent gesture of support.

Steph took a sip of water, gathering his thoughts. He’d always known this day would come—the day he’d have to explain to his children that not everyone would love them, that success comes with criticism, and sometimes, people hate us not for what we do wrong, but for what we represent.

“Canon,” Steph began softly, “that’s a very important question. When I started in the NBA, a lot of people didn’t believe in me. I was different—smaller, thinner, with a playing style no one had seen before. And when people see something different, sometimes they react with fear.”

“But why fear?” Canon asked, his confusion breaking Steph’s heart.

“Because when someone like me, who didn’t fit the traditional mold, started to succeed, it forced people to question their beliefs about what was possible. And questioning our beliefs is uncomfortable. It’s easier to attack the person who makes us question than to accept that maybe we were wrong.”

Steph paused, searching for the right words. “I remember one night in 2010, my second year in the league. I played well, but we lost. I made the mistake of reading online comments. They said I was an accident, that my rookie season was luck, that I was too small to be taken seriously, that I’d be exposed as a fraud.”

“How did you feel reading those things?” Canon asked, tears forming in his eyes.

“Devastated,” Steph admitted. “I cried that night. I was working harder than anyone, giving my best, but thousands of people saw me as a joke.”

Steph looked at his son, realizing that vulnerability was the greatest gift he could offer.

“But dad, you’re one of the best players in history. How could those people be so wrong?”

Steph smiled, a melancholic smile. “That’s the most important part, son. They weren’t necessarily being mean out of meanness. They were reacting to what they didn’t understand. For decades, basketball was played a certain way—tall, strong players dominating near the basket. When I came along, shooting from places others thought impossible, it scared some people.”

Issha spoke up, “Your father was changing the game, and change always bothers people who feel comfortable with the way things have always been.”

Steph nodded. “When you change something important, especially when you’re young and don’t look like those who did it before, you become a target.”

Canon’s voice was small. “So they didn’t really hate you?”

“It’s complicated, buddy. Some people really hated me, or at least hated the idea of me. Others were just expressing frustration or fear. Some were projecting their own insecurities onto me.”

Riley, quiet until now, said, “Dad, you never told us it affected you so much.”

“You were too young,” Steph replied. “And as a father, my job is to protect you from the world until you’re ready to understand it. But now, Canon is asking questions that deserve honest answers.”

Steph realized he couldn’t protect his children from the reality that success and difference attract both admiration and criticism.

“The hardest part wasn’t even the criticism. It was explaining to you, my family, why the world is sometimes cruel to people who are just trying to do their best.”

Canon was silent, processing everything. Then, with the clarity only children possess, he asked, “Dad, do you still get sad when people say bad things about you?”

Steph smiled, his answer loaded with years of learning. “Sometimes, yes. But I learned something important. When people criticize you for being different, for trying something new, for not fitting what they expect, it says more about them than about you. And sometimes, son, being hated for the right reasons is better than being loved for the wrong ones.”

Steph was transforming a conversation about criticism into a lesson about integrity and authenticity.

“Tomorrow night, after you finish your homework, let’s sit together and I’ll tell you the whole story—how I turned criticism into fuel, how I learned to use others’ doubts to build my certainty.”

Canon nodded, and Steph saw that his son’s innocence had been scratched, but something stronger had taken its place—a first understanding that the world can be unfair, but that doesn’t mean we should stop trying to be extraordinary.

That night, after the children went to sleep, Steph held Issha close. “I always knew this day would come—the day I’d have to explain not everyone will love them, especially if they choose to be different.”

“And you did it perfectly,” Issha replied. “You planted an important seed—the seed that our authenticity is worth more than others’ approval.”

Steph knew this was only the beginning of a longer conversation.

The next night, as promised, Steph and Canon sat together in the home office. Canon had finished his homework quickly, eager for the rest of the story.

“Ready for the complete story, buddy?” Steph asked, settling into his armchair.

“More than ready,” Canon replied.

Steph smiled, memories flooding back. “Let’s go back to 2009, when I was 21 and just drafted by the Warriors. One of the happiest moments of my life quickly turned into constant doubt. In the first days of training, I realized not everyone was happy with my presence in the league.”

He described the early criticisms—reporters questioning his physique, his right to be there, his father’s influence.

“How did that make you feel?” Canon asked.

“Confused. I’d worked my whole life to get there, broken records in college, but people only saw a skinny kid who didn’t look like a typical NBA player.”

Steph explained how deeply rooted prejudices can blind people to genuine talent.

“During my first year, I read everything—articles, blogs, comments. I shouldn’t have, but I was desperate to understand why so many rooted against me.”

He recalled a specific criticism after a great game: “A famous analyst called me an entertainment trick, said I’d be forgotten faster than I appeared.”

Steph paused. “That night, I cried in the shower. Not just because the criticism hurt, but because I started to wonder if they were right. Maybe I was just a temporary anomaly.”

“Have you ever wondered what it’s like to carry doubts about your worth while millions watch your every move?” Steph asked.

He told Canon how Issha became his anchor, reminding him, “They don’t hate you. They hate the idea that someone like you could be bigger than their limited expectations.”

Steph realized much of what he interpreted as personal hatred was resistance to change.

“But the criticism didn’t stop,” Steph continued. “Every bad game, the critics appeared—‘See, we said he wouldn’t last. Time to send him back to college.’”

“How could you keep playing?” Canon asked.

“I realized I had two options: let criticism destroy me, or use it as fuel to become impossible to ignore.”

Steph described the moment everything changed—after a tough loss, Issha told him, “You can choose to be a victim of their words or use those words to prove they’re measuring you by the wrong standards.”

Steph stopped trying to fit others’ expectations and started embracing what made him different.

“During the 2011–2012 season, I began shooting from places others thought impossible. I played with confidence—‘I don’t care if you think this is wrong. I know it works.’”

“Did it work?” Canon asked.

“Not immediately. There were still bad nights, but I stopped trying to silence critics. I tried to become so undeniably good that criticism became irrelevant.”

Steph taught Canon that excellence can make criticism obsolete.

“I remember an interview in 2012. A reporter asked how I dealt with people rooting against me. I said, ‘I don’t see people rooting against me. I see people who haven’t understood basketball is evolving. My job isn’t to convince them—it’s to play so well that evolution becomes inevitable.’”

“Dad, so you never got angry?” Canon asked.

“Of course I did—anger, sadness, frustration. But feelings are temporary. How we respond shapes our lives.”

Canon thought for a moment. “It seems like people didn’t really hate you. They were just afraid you’d prove them wrong about basketball.”

Steph smiled. “Exactly. When you understand that, criticism stops hurting and starts making sense.”

Steph walked to his trophy shelf, picked up his first MVP trophy, and sat back down. “Now comes the most important part—not how I overcame criticism, but how I transformed it into the most valuable lesson I can teach you.”

He called it “the mirror rule.”

“When someone criticizes you, especially unfairly, that criticism acts like a mirror—not reflecting who you are, but who they are.”

“Explain better, Dad.”

“When people called me too small or weak, they weren’t talking about me. They were revealing their own mental limitations.”

“But what if some criticism was true?” Canon asked.

“That’s the difference between constructive and destructive criticism. Constructive criticism comes from people who want to see you grow. It’s specific, offers solutions, and is given with respect. Destructive criticism comes from people who want to see you fail—it’s vague, offers only problems, and is given with anger.”

Steph explained how he learned to ask, “Does this person want to see me succeed or fail?” The answer always told him how to interpret their words.

“The most important lesson wasn’t just how to deal with criticism. It was how to use the experience of being criticized for being different—to never do that to others.”

Steph described how his pain became empathy, his success a responsibility to protect and encourage others.

“One day, you’ll be criticized—for being different, for trying something new, for standing out. Remember this conversation.”

Steph counted on his fingers: “First, remember the mirror rule. Second, learn the difference between constructive feedback and destructive noise. Third, use your experience to never unfairly criticize others. Fourth—and most important—being hated for the right reasons is better than being loved for the wrong ones.”

Canon absorbed every word.

“But doesn’t it still hurt?” he asked.

“It always hurts a little. But the pain of being misunderstood is temporary. The pain of betraying your authenticity is permanent.”

Steph shared a lesson from his father: “Extraordinary people always face extraordinary resistance. If everyone is happy with what you’re doing, you’re probably not doing anything important.”

Steph looked at Canon. “Whatever you choose—basketball, medicine, art—if you choose to be exceptional, you’ll face criticism. And when that happens, remember your father was also criticized. The same people who now call me revolutionary once called me lucky and temporary.”

Steph wasn’t promising a life without difficulty. He was giving Canon the tools to transform adversity into growth.

“The last thing I want you to understand,” Steph said, “is that when you choose to be different, you’re not just changing your life. You’re opening doors for others.”

Steph showed Canon a photo from when he was five, holding a basketball in the backyard. “Do you remember what I told you about practicing in silence?”

“You said practice in silence makes performance in public possible,” Canon replied.

“That’s right. While people debated my talent, I was in the gym at 5 a.m., turning doubts into determination.”

Steph explained that change is gradual—like watching a tree grow. Each day, he got a little better, a little more confident, a little more impossible to ignore.

In 2013, the narrative shifted. Critics called him “consistent” and “promising” instead of “lucky” and “temporary.” Not because he changed who he was, but because he proved who he always was.

“Dad, do you remember the moment you realized you’d won?”

Steph smiled. “It wasn’t one moment. It was a series of moments—winning MVP, leading the Warriors to a championship, breaking records. But the sweetest moment was when a young player thanked me for proving that players like us could succeed.”

Steph understood his greatest victory was not personal, but collective—opening doors for a generation.

“But the sweetest moment of all?” Steph asked. “In 2017, one of my harshest critics publicly apologized. He said, ‘I was wrong about Steph Curry. He changed the game.’”

“How did you feel?” Canon asked.

“I felt peace. The circle had closed. We’d all learned.”

Steph turned to Canon. “Now, I want you to apply these lessons. You already have what took me years to develop. You don’t need to learn through pain. You can choose to apply this wisdom from the start.”

Steph explained that these lessons apply to any field—medicine, art, business. The key is to always remember: mirror rule, distinguish constructive from destructive criticism, use your experience to protect others, and prefer being hated for the right reasons to being loved for the wrong ones.

“And remember, you’ll never be alone. Your mother and I went through this. We’ll always remind you who you are when the world tries to convince you otherwise.”

Canon hugged his father. “I promise I’ll remember all of this. When people criticize me for being different, I’ll use the mirror rule and remember it says more about them than about me.”

Steph held his son tightly. “The tears I cried became the victories we celebrate. Your own challenges will transform the same way if you choose to learn from them.”

That night, after Canon went to sleep, Steph whispered to Issha, “We planted some important seeds tonight.”

“You did more than plant seeds,” Issha replied. “You gave him a roadmap for turning criticism into strength—a living example that it’s possible to turn hate into triumph through authenticity and perseverance.”

Today, when asked about his greatest achievement, Steph doesn’t mention MVPs or championships. He talks about a quiet evening with his son, transforming years of personal pain into wisdom to protect and empower the next generation.

Because sometimes, the most important victories aren’t won on courts, but in living rooms—where fathers teach sons that being authentic is worth any criticism, and that today’s tears can become tomorrow’s triumphs.