I’ve been rejected by strangers, friends, and family; by companies; by organizations. I’ve been told I’m too “this” or too “that” or just plain brushed off as not being worthy of their time. I’ve been rejected for my experience, lack of experience, my look, my opinions, my friends, my network, my way of thinking.
I’ve been rejected so much that it’s become one of my best friends. Sometimes I see it daily, other times we lose touch for a few weeks. But it’s always there when I need it (or not).
I love rejection not for what it makes me feel (like crap) but for what it makes me. For every time I’ve lost, gotten slammed down, ignored, I’ve gotten back up. Each time I got back up a little sooner, pushed a little harder the next time. Loving rejection has made me fearless.
So I thank all the little and big rejections that I face. Even as I cry and hurt, I say thank you for the power it’s given me. I’m better for every closed door, barred window, and blocked path.
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What I see: Drive, physical strength, and endurance.
“Stomach stomach sticking out, how I want to cut you out”
– start of a journal entry, circa 1994
Flip through family pictures and you’ll see I rocked a belly from the moment I was born. Pictures of me jumping into a pool at Disney World when I was six, round little tummy leading the way. Frog jumping contest, t-shirt snug against me as I whack the mat behind my bullfrog. Year after year, picture after picture. That tummy stands out to me like a beacon.