Rejection Letters and the Art of Still Showing Up

It starts quietly. A ping in your inbox. A heart that races. A title that reads: “Thank you for your submission…” and then, that word. The one we all hate to see.

Rejected.

I wish I could say I got used to it.

I wish I could say that after the fifth, the fifteenth, or the fiftieth rejection, it started to feel normal. Like building a callus — one “no” after another toughening my skin until I stopped feeling the sting. But that’s not what happened. Every rejection, no matter how politely worded or generously framed, felt like a small unraveling. Like my words had been weighed and found lacking. And yet, every time, I showed up again.

This is not a story of instant success. This is the story of what happens in the long, unglamorous space between dreaming and arriving. It’s about the courage to keep going — even when the world says no.

The First “No” Hurts the Most

The first time I submitted a piece of writing to a publication, I was convinced it would be accepted.

Not because I thought I was brilliant — but because I believed in the truth of what I had written. I had labored over that essay. Rewritten it five times. Edited out every unnecessary comma. I had shown it to a friend who cried after reading it. Surely, I thought, if one person cried, maybe others would too.

But the editor didn’t cry. Or maybe they never got past the first paragraph. All I received was a form response thanking me for my time.

No feedback. No encouragement. Just... no.

I stared at the email for a full ten minutes, willing it to change, to soften. It didn’t.

That night, I questioned everything — not just the piece I’d submitted, but my entire identity as a writer.

And that’s the thing about rejection. It doesn’t just push back the door. Sometimes, it makes you question whether the door even leads to your dream anymore.

Rejection Has a Voice, and It Sounds Like Doubt

Rejection doesn’t always shout. Often, it whispers.

Maybe you’re not cut out for this.

Maybe your writing isn’t as good as you thought.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe you should stop.

I heard those voices in my head for months. Every time I sat down to write, they pulled up a chair. They reminded me of every unanswered email, every submission that vanished into the void, every contest I didn’t place in.

But something else showed up too: a stubborn flicker of wanting to try again.

That flicker became a match, and some days, it was the only light I had.

Rewriting the Narrative of Failure

One of the most painful lessons I’ve learned is this: you can write something meaningful, beautiful, and brave — and still be rejected.

Not because your work is bad.

Not because you’re bad.

But because rejection is part of the process.

It took me years to truly internalize that.

At some point, I stopped seeing each “no” as a condemnation and started treating it as a comma, not a period. A pause, not a full stop.

I reread the pieces that had been turned down. Some of them needed work. Others didn’t — they just hadn’t found their right home. I began to revise them, gently. Sometimes I submitted the same story six times before someone finally said “yes.”

Slowly, I realized that success wasn’t about writing something that no one could reject.

It was about becoming the kind of person who kept writing anyway.

The Submission Spreadsheet: A Graveyard and a Garden

If you’re a writer who submits regularly, you probably have a spreadsheet.

Mine is color-coded: green for accepted, red for rejected, gray for no response.

There’s a lot of red.

But nestled among the rejections are the greens — small victories that feel like life rafts in a sea of doubt.

The strange thing is, those little “yes” moments often came from the same piece that had been rejected elsewhere. The same essay that had been called “not quite the right fit” was later published in a journal that gave it an award. A poem I’d written off as too “raw” was later praised for its honesty.

The difference wasn’t the work — it was the audience. The timing. The editor. The alignment of stars I’ll never fully understand.

What I learned was this: you have to give your work a chance to breathe, to be seen, to find its people. And that takes time.

What Rejection Taught Me About Resilience

Rejection taught me that discipline beats inspiration.

That showing up — even when I didn’t feel like it, even when the words felt clunky and stale — was an act of devotion. An act of trust.

There were mornings I woke up and wanted to do anything but write. I wanted to be someone who didn’t care so much. But I wrote anyway. Even just a paragraph. Even just a line.

Over time, something shifted.

Not in the number of acceptances — though those came, eventually — but in how I saw myself. I was no longer someone “trying to be a writer.” I was a writer.

And writers write.

Even when the world says no.

Even when no one is listening.

Even when the only audience is the silence that follows submission.

Finding Community in the Trenches

Another thing rejection gave me? Community.

Some of my closest writer friends are people I met in online forums, workshops, or comment threads — usually bonded by shared wounds. We swapped stories of close calls, near misses, cruel feedback, and kind editors.

There’s a special kind of solidarity among those who have tasted disappointment and kept going.

We cheer each other on not just for publication wins, but for submitting at all.

Because when you’ve been bruised by rejection, hitting “send” on a new submission takes a kind of bravery most people don’t see.

“Still Showing Up” Is a Superpower

There’s a line I keep taped above my desk. I don’t know who said it first, but I live by it:

“You don’t have to write the best thing today. You just have to write.”

That’s what showing up looks like. Not perfect prose. Not constant wins. But persistence.

I show up because I owe it to the part of me who still believes in stories.

I show up for the 16-year-old who filled notebooks with dreams.

I show up because writing is how I make sense of the world — and myself.

And most of all, I show up because the only thing worse than rejection is silence. Silence from myself.

What I Know Now

Now, years later, I have a handful of published pieces. Some got thousands of views. Others barely reached a hundred. Some pieces went viral. Some got buried.

But all of them were born from the same decision:

To keep going.

To write the thing.

To send it out.

To risk the “no” again.

And when I get rejected — because I still do — I feel it, I grieve it, and then I whisper: “Okay. Again.”

Because this is the art of still showing up.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not quick.

But it is brave.

If You’re in the Middle of the “No’s”

To the writer reading this who hasn’t been published yet:

You are not a failure.

You are not invisible.

You are doing something beautiful and brave.

Keep submitting. Keep editing. Keep learning.

But most importantly, keep writing.

Your voice matters. Even if the world doesn’t recognize it yet.

And one day — maybe not today, maybe not next week — someone will say “yes.”

And when they do, it won’t just be a publication. It’ll be a culmination.

Proof that you stayed. That you believed.

That you showed up.

Closing Thought

Rejection letters are not just reminders of failure. They are proof that you dared.

So keep daring. Keep dreaming. Keep writing.

Because the ones who make it aren’t always the most talented — they’re the ones who never stopped showing up.