I got rejected from my dream job last week. Not just a “that would be cool” kind of job—the job. The one I let myself fantasize about too much, picturing my first day, my email signature, the I did it feeling that would finally make all the long nights, internships and career sacrifices feel worth it.
And then, in one polite email, it was gone.
I stared at the screen for a while, re-reading the words I already understood. We appreciate your time. We had many qualified applicants. We’ve chosen to move forward with another candidate. I wanted to reply, “Are you sure? Maybe check again?” But instead, I just closed my laptop and sat in silence, trying to ignore the very loud voice in my head saying, “You weren’t good enough.”
Rejection has a way of making itself comfortable in my life. It showed up when I was 13, sitting alone at lunch after realizing my so-called best friends had a new group chat that didn’t include me. It was there in high school when the guy I had been texting everyday for months started dating someone else, and I had to act like it didn’t completely gut me. It reappeared in college when I felt friendships slip through my fingers, like holding onto water, and I couldn’t figure out what I did wrong. And now, it’s here in my inbox, reminding me that even when I do everything right, I can still hear a resounding no.
Rejection has this way of making you second-guess everything. It convinces you that maybe you should have written a better cover letter, should have spoken up more in the interview, should have been just a little bit more—like you weren’t already giving everything you had. It takes you back to every other time you weren’t enough for someone, weren’t chosen, weren’t the one they wanted. It stings because it’s not just about this rejection—it’s about all of them, layered on top of each other like a cruel reminder that you weren’t picked, again.
And yet, I’ve been on the other side, too.
I’ve rejected internships that weren’t the right fit, even when I worried I was making the wrong choice. I’ve walked away from opportunities that didn’t align with where I saw myself going, even though it meant not having something secure to fall back on. I’ve turned down jobs because I knew I wouldn’t be happy in them, even if saying no felt terrifying.
I’ve rejected friendships when I realized I was the only one putting in the effort. I’ve let people fade out of my life, whether intentionally or not, and I’ve seen how that feels from both sides. I’ve had moments where I knew someone wanted to be closer to me, wanted me to be more present, more available, more invested—and I just couldn’t be. Not because they weren’t important, but because something in me just couldn’t give them what they needed.
I’ve rejected love, too. I’ve walked away from people who cared about me because I knew, deep down, that I didn’t feel the same way. I’ve said, “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I can give you what you want,” and watched as someone else felt the sting of rejection, knowing I was the one responsible for it. I’ve stayed in relationships too long because I didn’t want to be the one to say, “This isn’t working,” but I’ve also left when I knew it was time, even when it hurt.
I think the hardest thing about rejection is how permanent it feels in the moment. That job wasn’t mine. That friendship wasn’t meant to last. That relationship wasn’t going to work, no matter how much I wanted it to. And yet, life kept moving. Something else came in and filled the space.
And I know that will happen again.
Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But I know, deep down, that this rejection isn’t the end of the story. It just feels like it right now.
Because every rejection has led me somewhere I was meant to be.
The friendships that didn’t work out led me to the ones that do—the ones that show up, that put in the same effort, that don’t make me question my place. The relationships that ended made space for better ones, for people who see me the way I want to be seen. The opportunities I didn’t get pushed me toward the ones that I was actually ready for, the ones that fit me better than I could have imagined.
So yeah, I got rejected this week. And yeah, it stings. But if history has taught me anything, it’s that rejection only hurts until the next thing—the right thing—comes along. As my mom likes to say “It just wasn’t meant for you.” So when the thing that’s right for you does, I probably won’t even remember this job I wanted so badly (I definitely will).
For now, I just have to sit with the empty space and trust that eventually, it’ll fill itself.
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff.
