I’ve been thinking about rejection.

Not the dramatic kind.

Just the quiet little emails that arrive after you’ve sent something you’ve spent time making.

Thank you for your submission…

Unfortunately…..

Not this time…..

I’ve had a few of those recently.

And, if I’m honest, they sting.

Because there is something vulnerable about sending your writing out into the world.

I could keep it safely in my notebook. There, it belongs entirely to me. I know why I wrote it. I know what I was trying to say. Nobody can reject it.

But the moment I press submit, I let it go.

Someone else gets to read it. Someone else gets to decide whether it speaks to them and someone else might decide it isn’t for them.

That’s vulnerable.

It’s also the point.

Because I want my writing to be read. I want it to find people. And that means being willing to be seen.

Being seen means sometimes hearing no.

That’s the bargain.

The danger is what I make that no mean.

Maybe I’m not good enough.

Maybe I’m not really a writer.

Maybe I need to write differently.

But I’m beginning to see that a rejection doesn’t actually tell me any of those things.

It tells me that this particular piece wasn’t chosen for this particular opportunity.

That’s all.

I can care about being chosen without allowing not being chosen to define me.

I can be disappointed.

I can let it sting.

And then I can open my notebook again.

Perhaps this is the deeper lesson I’m learning. I don’t need other people to choose my work in order for me to choose it. I don’t need a shortlist to prove that I should continue.  I don’t need a prize to make the writing worthwhile.

I can allow the world to have its response without handing over my sense of worth.

And maybe that’s another kind of freedom.

I can survive not being chosen.

And I can choose myself anyway.

So, I’ll send the next piece.

And then I’ll get back to the writing.