, (iStock)
“Did they email you yet?” my husband asked, yet again.
“No, not yet,” I told him, yet again.
The email finally arrived yesterday. When I opened my laptop at our kitchen island and saw it in my inbox, my stomach jumped.
“Dear Lisa, Thank you for applying to the leadership program class of 2026,” the email read. “Regretfully, we will not be offering you a place in this year’s class. We received an extraordinary number of strong applications,” blah, blah, blah.
My stomach, which had leapt into my throat, sunk back into place with a queasy plop. I sat a moment, dazed, not sure how to feel. On one hand, I was relieved that I hadn’t been picked for the leadership program for which I’d interviewed and submitted an extensive application, because it would have required a lot of work, travel and time away from home while juggling my full-time job.
On the other hand, I’d failed. No matter how much failure may turn out to be a blessing in disguise in the long run, it still feels bad in the moment. Suddenly, the inner child that has lived deep within me since I was a chunky middle schooler with average grades and no extraordinary skills spoke up. “See, you’re just not good enough,” she told my consciousness. “You had no business applying in the first place.”
My husband had been telling anyone that would listen that I had applied to the prestigious leadership program. “Honey!” I’d admonish him, “Stop telling everyone! What if I don’t make it?”
“You’re gonna make it,” he’d reply, without the slightest doubt. But I’d known all along that there was a very good chance I would be rejected. Applicants were informed early on that it might take several application cycles to succeed, because the committee promulgated different criteria each year to create a unique cohort. The rational side of me knew that my qualifications were good enough for the overall program — I just didn’t fit into this year’s unique set of criteria.
Despite this rational, healthy and intelligent assessment, I still felt bad.
“I told you,” I wrote in the email forwarding my rejection letter to my husband.
When he got home that evening, he kissed me and said, “Sorry, Hon.”
“Ugh,” I groaned, “now I have to tell everyone.” I wasn’t looking forward to admitting failure to all those people my husband had informed of my application. I couldn’t blame him. At least he had believed in me. I really wasn’t looking forward to telling the people who’d taken the time to write my recommendations. I told my husband I didn’t want to tell anyone yet.
The news was too fresh to accurately process. I needed time for the shock and pain of rejection to fade, so that my rational assessment would put this blip in time in proper perspective. While thinking things through, I recalled failures and successes from my past. Interestingly, while I vividly recalled many losses and defeats, my memory of achievements was foggy.
Although a few decent boys liked me when I was a teen, my stronger memory is of the many dances, Valentine’s Days and carnation fundraisers when I desperately longed for a boyfriend that never materialized. Although I was voted Most Improved and team captain, I can still smell the chlorine from countless high school swim meets when my father was disappointed that I didn’t get my best time. Although I earned my degree from a good college, I’ll never forget that C-minus in political science that was nearly a D thanks to skipped classes and pulling all-nighters before exams. Although I earned my J.D. cum laude, passed the bar with flying colors and became a litigation attorney, the rejection letter I received from Wake Forest University Law School will forever be burned into my memory bank.
I realized that the sting of failure can obscure perceptions of successes and achievements. During moments of inevitable disappointment, it’s important to keep your inner child from blowing things out of proportion. More importantly, when you are victorious, bring that inner child out of hiding, and teach her to celebrate your success so you’ll never forget all that you’ve achieved.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
