When Rejection Makes You Question Your Entire Existence

I’m not feeling good enough today.

I was raised with the belief that career is everything. That, without a title, an identity, a trajectory, you are nothing. So I followed it. Diligently. Religiously.

I’ve worked for as long as I can remember. I’ve done well by most external standards. I’ve built a solid, international career. I’ve worked across countries, climbed my way up advertising agencies, led teams, headed social functions. Today, I have a senior role, a well-paying job, a resume that looks impressive on paper.

And yet, it’s always been someone else’s version of success.

Because underneath all of that, I’ve always been creative.

That part of me was never celebrated growing up. It wasn’t encouraged. It wasn’t mirrored back with excitement or safety. So I learned to hide it. My creativity would peek through here and there, but I never let it fully live.

I loved music. I loved singing. I learned instruments. I danced obsessively and competed until my confidence got in the way. I trained in classical Indian music and performed recitals until my confidence got in the way. I painted when I lived alone, quietly, privately, never sharing it publicly because my confidence got in the way.

There’s a pattern there.

In the last year, I’ve finally admitted something to myself. Writing is my true passion. Storytelling is my gift. It feels like the most honest expression of who I am. And for the first time, I want my career to align with that truth.

But I’m terrified.

Because confidence is trying to get in the way again.

Recently, I applied for a job that felt like it checked every box. It wasn’t just a good role, it felt aligned. Purpose-led. Creative. Meaningful. I could see myself in it so clearly. I imagined my days. My contribution. My life inside that work.

And then I received the rejection email.

Something about that email shattered me.

Not because I didn’t get the job, but because it forced me to confront a painful gap. The gap between how I see myself and how the world sees me. The gap between what I believe I’m capable of and what someone else decided I wasn’t.

It shook my confidence to the core.

Now I’m sitting here wondering if I’ve been wrong about myself this whole time. If I’m actually not good enough. If this dream of a purpose-led, storytelling-driven career is just a fantasy I’m clinging to.

As I try to move toward alignment, I feel paralysed by the fear of more rejection. I don’t know how much more I can take.

There’s only so much you can fake. Only so much you can endure.

How many meetings can you sit through where nothing meaningful is discussed? How many hours can you spend in spaces that feel soulless, political, empty of substance? How many days can you trade for a version of yourself that feels smaller than who you know you are?

All the while, I’m missing time with my child. Missing time to write. Missing time to show up as my full, authentic self. Missing deep connection with people. Missing a life that feels honest.

I yearn for a different path.

And yet, my lack of belief in myself is stopping me from taking it.

Not because I don’t know what I want. But because I’m scared I can’t survive more rejection. I’m scared that each “no” chips away at something fragile inside me. I’m scared that vulnerability, especially public vulnerability, is exhausting.

Today, I’m in a funk. I’m feeling all the feels. And instead of pretending I’m fine, instead of processing this quietly and alone, I want to do it differently.

I want to be honest about where I am.

So I’m asking, genuinely, from this stuck and tender place:

How do you handle rejection without letting it define you?
How do you keep going when imposter syndrome is loud?
How do you rebuild belief after the world tells you no?
How do you keep choosing yourself when confidence feels unavailable?

This feeling of not being good enough, especially when you’ve accidentally built a whole life around being “successful,” is a very hard place to be in.

If you’ve been here too, I’d love to hear how you made it through. Or if you’re still here, maybe we can sit in it together.