Nikki’s Story
Rejection isn’t just painful. It’s primal.
From the moment we’re born, we’re wired to seek connection — a survival instinct baked into our biology. So when someone turns us away, ignores us, criticises us, ghosts us, or tells us we’re not quite it, it doesn’t just sting, it destabilises.
And here’s the kicker:
Our minds are meaning-making machines. We don’t just feel the pain—we interpret it. We spin it into stories: I wasn’t enough. I said too much. I didn’t say enough. I should’ve known better. What’s wrong with me?
The real pitfall is this:
Rejection from the outside often leads to the abandonment of the self. We begin to measure our worth against impossible standards and deny our own magical, authentic design. And that’s what breaks our hearts. Not the rejection itself — but the way it convinces us we will never belong.
There’s a funny thing about the feeling of not belonging.
It doesn’t whisper. It slams into your gut with the force of a hundred invisible rulebooks—all the ones you didn’t know you were supposed to follow. How to look. How to speak. How to sit in a meeting without crossing your arms. How to lean in without leaning too much. How to be palatable, presentable, but only just enough.
Most of us have been told, in ways loud and subtle, that belonging is earned through conformity. That if we just sharpen the edges of who we are or smooth out the inconvenient parts — we’ll eventually be allowed in. Given a seat at the table. Invited to stay.
But what happens when you do all that… and still feel like an intruder?
When your very existence challenges the norms of the room?
When the shape of your story doesn’t fit the architecture of the space?
When we feel rejected, especially by systems or people we once looked up to, it can feel like the ground falls out from under us. We scramble to cling to the nearest sign of success—hustle harder, perform better, be more impressive. But chasing status is like trying to fill a black hole with confetti. It might look pretty for a second, but it won’t change the physics. And it won’t necessarily ease the pain either. Because once you’re up there, the anxiety to stay there — to not fall — becomes its own kind of chaos. It’s the hedonic treadmill, dressed in designer clothes and smiling through gritted teeth. Status is a game you can’t win, because the rules change constantly, and the scoreboard is controlled by people who profit from your insecurity.
Truth bomb:
You can perform belonging and still feel desperately alone. You can follow every unspoken rule and still get the boot. Because real belonging was never about perfection — it’s about permission.
Not permission from them. From you.
If rejection, whether personal or systemic, cuts that deep — how do we begin to heal?
Here’s the cherry-on-top no one gives you when your stomach is in knots and your confidence is crumbling: You are not rejected. You are redirected. You are beautifully human, and that means every scar on your heart is a testament to your capacity to love, to want, to dream. It doesn’t mean you’re wrong.It means the fit was wrong. The moment. The person. The place. The timing.
What do we do?
We refuse to let rejection define us. Instead, we let it fuel us.
We acknowledge the pain, feel it fully, and then — we let it go. We stop asking, “How do I belong?” and start asking, “Where do I come alive?” We stop performing our worth and start embodying it. We stop chasing approval and start curating alignment.
We become creators.
We write new rules.
We draw life toward us with hunger, not desperation. With intention, gratitude and on purpose.
Rejection isn’t the opposite of belonging.
It’s just a very loud invitation to belong somewhere else. The ache of not belonging is earthmoving rage. But it is also a breaking-open and a soul call to design something truer, aligned with magical new aliveness.
We re-create ourselves and the worlds we move through.
Not for a grand-finale or the world’s applause — but for our own heart’s truest liberation.
For the love of self. 
