faith unfaded

Writing—like acting or any other art form—is a world of doors.

Open ones you skip right through, and closed ones that sometimes bruise your toes as they slam shut on you.

It’s an industry of no’s—and to me, that’s a shortened four-letter word. I hate it.

I used to think silence was the worst response. Now I’ve decided I’d much rather hear nothing than, “This isn’t for us.” My brain has always been a little dramatic in translation.

Because somewhere along the way, I confused:

This piece isn’t a fit.

with

You aren’t good enough.

That’s a dangerous mistranslation.

I submitted a short story to a magazine in the mid-2000s. It was the first thing I’d written in a few years. When the rejection came back, I didn’t just reject the piece—I rejected myself. I stopped writing altogether.

For ten years.

Because of one no.

Years later, I started writing again with a steely resolve. Stephen King faced rejection. John Grisham faced rejection. I accepted rejection as part of the game.

Until the third one arrived. Three felt like a pattern, and I didn’t like what it was showing me. I was ready to quit once again and told my daughter Kaden I didn’t think I had it in me to be a writer after all.

Her reply has stayed with me for the last seven years:

“Mom, somebody in publishing actually read your work. That means you put something out there that you created and put it in the hands of someone in New York. That’s more than most people ever do.”

That shifted something in me.

Because rejection suddenly stopped meaning:

You shouldn’t knock.

And started meaning:

Find the right door to knock on.

Not every piece is right for every publication. Not every story lands where you expected it to. I’ve submitted pieces I poured my heart and soul into—certain they’d be picked up—only to face rejection again.

When those rejections come, I still feel the sting. I still have moments where disappointment tries to whisper old lies. But I’ve learned to remind myself of something deeper:

“As you come to him, the living Stone—rejected by humans but chosen by God and precious to him—” 1 Peter 2:4

Rejected by humans.

Chosen by God.

Precious to Him.

The same can be true in life. We are quick to turn disappointment into identity. We allow rejection to become a verdict instead of seeing it as an experience.

God has never measured me by acceptance letters, open doors, or other people’s opinions. My worth was never hanging on a response email. It was already settled long before I ever hit “send.”