Rejection to Redemption

 

Rejection to Redemption

Rejection is a strange kind of heartbreak. It doesn’t scream, it lingers. It sits with you quietly, whispering thoughts into your head until you can’t take it anymore. There are moments in life that split you into two— the person you were before and the one you are after. For me, this moment wasn’t crazy loud, in fact it was silent. It was a buzz, a notification. Just a name on a list. But for me, that was everything, because that name was mine. 

Let’s spiral back a little bit, my whole life I thought that the only thing I love to do is dance. Every Time I was on stage, the world would pause and it was just me and my moves. So, when I found out my high school has a Bollywood dance team, I knew I NEEDED to make it. I got so into it that was all I could think of. It was something I had always wanted— something I could see so clearly: me on stage, part of a team, shining under the lights. I practiced and imagined what it would be like to get the “congratulations”. But after the auditions, at night, I was sitting in the living room with my family when my inbox buzzed. It read, ‘audition results’, hyper, I looked for my name. Tears welled up in my eyes when I couldn’t find my name. The silence was louder than anything– as if my world came crashing down. It felt like I wasn’t good enough — not just for the team, but in general. I didn’t show it, not really. I laughed with friends. I moved on… or pretended to. However, inside, it was eating me up.  It was like this dream I had built just collapsed in front of me. And I didn’t know what to chase anymore.

Then, around February, Badminton tryouts came. Along with dance, badminton has also been a big part of my life. At first, I wasn’t keen on doing it, because what if I failed myself again? I couldn’t take another rejection, but a part of me was saying “what's the worst that could happen?”  I hesitated — part of me didn’t want to go through another round of hope followed by disappointment. But a bigger part of me — the part that hadn’t given up — whispered, “Try. Just try.” So I did.
Scared to death, one afternoon,  I walked into the gym with my hands shaking and my stomach in knots. Everyone around me looked so calm, so focused. I was anything but.  I could barely breathe. Every swing felt like it had something riding on it. Being tested on all the techniques and footwork was the most pressurizing. I gave it my all that day, all the days of practice flashed before my eyes with every shot I hit. As the tryouts came to an end, I felt a sense of relief but I knew the days ahead would be scarier. The wait between the rounds was almost unbearable. Every notification on my phone made my chest tighten. I sat in silence, gripping my phone, refreshing over and over. And when I saw my name — my name — listed for the second round, I actually burst into tears. Not the kind you wipe away quietly. The kind that comes out of nowhere because your heart has been holding so much for so long. Just a simple name on a list gave me the confidence I never knew I needed.

But, it wasn’t over.

The second round of tryouts collided with a major speech tournament at Berkeley. I was constantly switching between two worlds — rushing from speaking events straight to badminton tryouts and back again. And, to make it worse, this was my first speech tournament. One moment, I was in a small room giving my speech in front of the judges, and the next, I was shuffling across the court. One moment, I was in a blazer. The next, in work out clothes smashing the birdie. My hands were trembling. My legs felt heavy, like I was moving through water. Sweat clung to my skin, mixing with the Berkeley name tag still stuck to the inside of my bag. I was trying to stay focused, but everything was spinning — my lungs burned, my head pounded, and my mind couldn’t stop screaming: What if this isn’t enough?

I was drained. Completely. Between matches, I would sit staring at the wall, wondering who I would play next. It wasn’t like I won all the games, I lost a few– making the situation even more nerve wracking. My body, my thoughts, my heart, everything went numb. All the running and mental exhaustion was getting to me. At one point, I felt like bursting into tears, but I knew I had to push through— for the girl who thought she wasn’t worth anything. So, I kept going,  Because somewhere deep down, past all the exhaustion and self-doubt, was this tiny flicker of hope. Fragile, but alive. After the second round ended, all I could think about was the results. But of course, I couldn’t keep worrying about that since yet again, I had to go to Berkeley for another round of speech— this time, I felt a bit more relaxed.

The next day while I was in the car coming back home from the last round at Berkeley, my phone buzzed. An email. My heart started thumping. Though I wasn’t expecting anything, a slither of hope in me wanted my name on that list. I refreshed the page, and there it was — my name. Written clear as day. I sat there frozen. It was like the world stopped spinning. I had to reread it three times to believe it was real.

Then I screamed. My friend was in the car and she was beyond excited for me. My dad also congratulated me with the biggest smile as I called my mom back at home. Everyone was elated, but not as much as me. I cried so hard I couldn’t speak. It felt like the entire universe had heard everything I’d been through and was finally, finally giving me a moment to breathe. To feel proud. To win. I made it. I had made the team. I felt like I was worth something, it gave me a sense of belonging, a sense of talent. That day, that email, that list, changed my life forever.

Now, I walk into games with my name stitched across my uniform while representing my school. Whenever I see it before the mirror, me in MY uniform, holding my racket, it feels surreal. I belong. And every time I step onto that court, I remember the girl who was so broken after that first rejection… and I want to hug her. Because she didn’t give up. This team has given me life. It gave me friends, a community and a stress reliever. Getting onto the badminton team wasn’t just an achievement. It was a turning point. It was proof that heartbreak doesn’t mean the end. That sometimes, the thing meant for you is waiting right behind your lowest moment.

That one notification changed everything. And I’ll never forget it.

If I learnt one thing from this experience was that you must keep going, no matter what anyone thinks of you— all that matters is that you believe in yourself. It also reminds me of a piece of advice my dad once gave me—something he picked up from a movie, “If things go according to your plan, that is great. But, if not, it's even better since that's how god wants it to go— and that's always better” 

Never give up because something better is always on its way. 

-Aarya Godse

4/25/25