I Should Have Been ________.
Today I was rejected. Rejection feels like complete failure to me. It always has. Rejection triggers an internal scrambling where I analyze every possible weakness—real or imagined—until I land in the same familiar place:
I am not enough. I should have been ______. Yes. Fill in the blank with all of it.
Smarter. More diligent. Wittier. More charismatic. Worked. Harder.
As an independent author, I’ve been submitting Sugarcane Saint to several curated book festivals. The book was accepted to Williamsburg and Annapolis. But there was a third festival I really hoped to add to the schedule.
They said no.
Then they listed all the different ways they evaluate whether an author meets their standards. What they didn’t do was say where I fell short. I really dislike that part. Because when you’re an obsessive overthinker like me, that silence leaves a lot of room to noodle.
And inevitably the thought buzzes like mosquitos in July: Fail. Fail. Fail.
But my life story has plenty of less-than-stellar moments. Things would look very different if I had always given in to the whirling dervish of self-flagellation I’m prone to. So I’ve learned to push back.
Today I did what I usually do when those thoughts start circling. I put on workout clothes and went to the gym. I slipped on my new butter-yellow headphones—chosen specifically because my fifteen-year-old son is less likely to steal them—and turned on my Spotify playlist called TWISTER. Fun fact: that was my childhood nickname.
That playlist is full of songs that yank at the reasons I keep reaching beyond myself. It’s basically a concert of power moments that all lead to one simple thought: You can do this. No matter who says you can’t.
I power-walked for thirty minutes while Rascal Flatts crooned, John Mayer worked his usual magic, and Sneaker Pimps drove home a perfect heartbeat rhythm. And slowly a familiar determination started to come back.
Afterward I met a friend for lunch and learned something unexpected about her: she writes. Not for publication. Not for recognition. Just because she enjoys building characters and exploring stories. She reminded me of something easy to forget. Creative work begins as a personal journey long before it becomes anything else. By the time I left lunch, the day had righted itself.
Life will always hand us rejection. But it also hands us movement, good music, and if we’re lucky, friends who remind us why we started in the first place.
And now I’m curious— what helps you reset after a moment of rejection?
