Dancing in the Rain

In 1992, I danced in the rain after being rejected for my dream job.

It wasn’t planned. It was just me, standing outside a nursing facility in Asheville, North Carolina, in a soaked blazer, holding a rejection letter.

I had just graduated from ETSU in Johnson City with a degree in Health Care Administration and Business. I was 24 years old. Full of fire, full of plans. I’d worked hard. I believed in systems, preparation, professionalism. I believed if you followed the path, the path would welcome you in return.

This job was supposed to be my first big step. The one that would launch me into the career I’d been building in my head since junior year. Administrator at a nursing facility.

I walked into that interview dressed in my best navy suit, the one I bought with money saved from a summer job back home. I had extra résumés in my briefcase and a rehearsed smile in my back pocket. I sat up straight. I spoke clearly. I believed I had a real shot. Boy was I wrong!

The rejection came face-to-face. I had barely made it back to the lobby before someone called me aside and let me know, politely but directly:

“We appreciate your time, but we’ve decided to go with someone with more experience.”

I nodded. Said thank you. Even smiled a little. I walked outside without showing disappointment. I was still trying to be the professional I’d spent four years preparing to be.

And then I stepped out into the parking lot, and into the rain.

I should’ve been crushed and should’ve slumped into the car and driven home in silence. But instead, I stood still. The rain was light. Just enough to soak through my hair, then I had an idea.

I dropped my bag in the front seat, shrugged off my blazer, and walked back out into the open. And then, without thinking, I spun once in a slow but steady motion.

It was ridiculous, unprofessional and even childish. And it felt amazing.

I started to laugh and kept spinning around. No one was watching, so I danced. A real, unfiltered dance. Shoes slipping on the parking lot. Hair matted to my face. Arms stretched wide like I was claiming something back.

And in that brief, beautiful moment, I realized something that’s stayed with me ever since:

Life doesn’t start when someone says yes. It starts the moment you stop tying your worth to it.

I didn’t get the job. But I didn’t lose myself either. In fact, that was the first time I saw myself clearly and not as an applicant or a résumé or a rehearsed set of answers, but as a person with the power to pivot. A person who could find joy even when the plan fell apart.

That moment cracked something open.

Eventually, I did get hired. I built a career in healthcare, that I’m proud of. I earned trust, led teams of employees, showed up for people when it mattered, and eventually I was running seven nursing facilities, I won Administrator of the year, and I did the work, and I loved it. But that rainy afternoon in Asheville taught me more than any classroom or board meeting ever could.

Now I’m retired and write full time. I don't get paid for the work I do now, but I am doing the job that I love. It comes with stories, with reflection, with remembering how it all started.

And if you asked me to prove this moment happened and if you said, “Tell me this story is really yours” I’d point you to that fire-lit part of me that still believes in second chances. I’d show you the old leather binder in my closet, the one I carried into that interview, still has the water stain at the edge. I’d read you pages from the notebook I wrote in later that night.

I’d say: I was 24 years old, fresh out of college in Johnson City, standing in the rain in Asheville, and I decided to dance instead of disappearing.

That moment didn’t define my career.

It defined me.