point of this story, of course, is that sometimes the situation that feels like the worst form of rejection—not getting the job, not getting the promotion, not getting the grant, client, or contract that you want—actually turns out to be a tremendous blessing.
A few years down the road, you might be kneeling on the ground in gratitude, saying to yourself: “Thank God they didn’t hire me.”
Painful as it may be, rejection can be a good thing. Rejection can force you to confront the truth about what you really want—a truth that, maybe, you haven’t admitted to anyone yet, not even yourself. Once the truth is out, it can be dizzying and frightening, but also such a relief. Now, your next chapter can officially begin.
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SURVIVAL TIP:
When you don’t get offered a job that you applied for, remind yourself:
“Well, this is disappointing, but it’s going to be OK. I am going to find—or create—some other type of job opportunity instead. One day, I might be incredibly grateful that this job didn’t work out. This could be a huge blessing in disguise.”
Maybe now, since you didn’t get hired, you’ll finally have time to write that cookbook you’ve been fantasizing about. Maybe now you’ve got time to schedule that long-overdue trip home to visit your mom and dad, and they’ll finally tell you the “real story” of how they met. Maybe now you’ll take a short-term job as a barista and realize that your greatest dream is to run your own coffee shop someday. Maybe now you’ll call up that old colleague to catch up and, lo and behold, maybe she’ll want to hire you.
There’s no telling what could happen next. But whatever it is, it might be even better than any job that you tried to get in the past.
TAKE YOUR BROKEN HEART.
Story contributed by: Susan Hyatt.
Author. Entrepreneur. Life coach. Motivational speaker.
A Note from Alexandra:
When you’re a writer, finding a literary agent is lot like searching for a job. In many ways, it’s the same process. You have to write an enticing email about yourself—an email that will (hopefully) capture a very busy person’s attention. You have to compile documents to prove you’ve got the required experiences and skills. You have to contact a lot of potential agents, cross your fingers, and…wait. It can be a long, tedious process, and it’s one that’s riddled with rejection. Most aspiring authors have to stomach a lot of “No’s” before an agent finally says, “I think you’re terrific, I love your book, and I want to help you get a publishing deal.”
My friend Susan knows all about it, because she just went through the process herself. But her story actually begins a decade earlier—with a shocking crime that temporarily derailed Susan’s entire life. Susan told the entire story to me over the course of a long, emotional phone call. (I was sobbing by the end.)
All you’ll see, Susan is a true survivor, in more ways than one. She’s an inspiration for anybody who wants to achieve a huge, daunting professional goal, and anybody who wants to leave a positive mark on the world. Susan took the single worst experience of her entire life—and she transformed it into art. This is the story of how it happened…
* * *
Susan: Ten years ago, I drove to my local pet store to buy some dog kibble for our new puppy. It was a bright, cheery day. The mid-afternoon light warmed my face. I parked my SUV and walked across the lot behind the store. I saw a man standing near the back entrance, and I smiled politely at him as I passed by. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just another lovely day in the suburbs of Evansville, Indiana.
The next thing I knew, I was face-down on the ground, being dragged along the sharp gravel.
The man covered my mouth and pulled me behind a dumpster. Then he told me that he’d kill my family if I told anyone about this. And then—there’s really no way to make this sound “delicate” or “subtle”—he raped me. In broad daylight. Literally two paces away from the door of the neighborhood pet store.
If you’ve ever been sexually assaulted, first of all, I am so incredibly sorry you had to endure that type of attack. Secondly, you probably know that this type of trauma can impact you in all kinds of complicated, unexpected, and messy ways. Some women immediately want to tell their family and the police. Other women want to block out the memory and pretend it never happened because it’s just too painful to revisit. Other women blame themselves and feel ashamed, as if the whole thing is their fault, which it never is.
My response was to drive home, take a shower, and keep silent. I was traumatized and shocked, and I wasn’t thinking clearly or logically. Also, I was genuinely terrified that this man would “kill my family,” just as he’d promised to do. I tried to wash the attack off my body and forget all about it. I didn’t tell my husband. I didn’t tell a single living soul. I plastered a smile onto my face and continued onward with my life.
Then I found out I was pregnant—and I didn’t know if the child was my husband’s or the rapist’s. I know this sounds like the plot of a twisted daytime soap opera, but it actually happened to me.
After that, I knew I had to talk to my husband and tell him about the pregnancy. In hysterical tears, I told him everything that had happened in that pet store parking lot. He held me tightly while I sobbed and spewed out all of the horrible details.
He was completely stunned. He promised me that we’d get through this. He told me that I could get therapy, counseling, anything I needed to recover from this attack, anything at all. We could try to track down this guy and press charges, if I wanted to. We could do anything I needed. He would be right by my side.
I was so grateful for my husband’s unconditional support. But even with his love and encouragement, I was a complete mess. I was still reeling from the attack, and I was having frequent panic attacks and nightmares where I’d bolt awake with my heart pounding out of my chest, nauseous, dizzy, and sweating like I’d just sprinted through a marathon. I’ve always been a sunny, positive person, but during this chapter of my life, I didn’t feel like “myself” at all. On any given day, I’d swing between feeling anxious…and feeling numb and emotionless.
Ultimately, I miscarried and lost the baby. I continued working full-time and caring for my other two kids. I went to PTA meetings and baked cookies for bake sales. I dutifully visited my therapist’s office once a week. Life just sort of…carried on. But I really wasn’t OK.
Even though everything about my life seemed “fine” to the casual observer, inside I was incredibly anxious, stressed, and unhappy. I couldn’t figure out how to make myself feel better. My medication of choice became food.
I started snacking mindlessly all throughout my workday—chips, chocolate, whatever was lying around—just to distract myself from all of the complicated, uncomfortable emotions I was feeling. Back at home, after work, I’d make a huge platter of Brie cheese, bread, crackers, more chips, and wine, and I’d eat the entire thing while zoning out in front of the TV, watching shows I didn’t even enjoy.
I was trying to escape my own body, trying to tune out everything I was thinking and feeling. And you know what? It worked. Food can be a really effective escape hatch, at least temporarily. But of course, eating constantly does carry some unwanted consequences.
I wound up gaining almost forty pounds in the span of just a few months. I’m
