Читать книгу You're Going to Survive - Alexandra Franzen - Страница 13
ОглавлениеMY BEST FRIEND GOT THE JOB—NOT ME.
Story contributed by: Ben Wendel.
Grammy Award-nominated musician. Composer. Producer.
A Note from Alexandra:
On a sticky-melty-hot summer day, I was driving past a Starbucks in Portland, Oregon. My phone flashed. Call from Ben Wendel. I pulled into the parking lot and miraculously found a spot. For the next hour or so, I sat in my car, furiously taking notes, while Ben told me how it felt to watch his best friend get the job that he wanted, and how that experience rattled his self-esteem to the core.
Ben would never say this himself, because he’s very humble, but I will tell you that he’s a musical genius who’s been nominated for a Grammy Award. He’s won about a million different prizes and grants. He’s been praised in The New York Times and lots of other publications. He plays numerous instruments. He’s immensely talented, hardworking, and respected by his peers. He’s performed with Snoop Dogg and The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, which is obviously the coolest thing ever.
In addition to being a world-renowned musician, composer, and producer, Ben also happens to be my older brother—and he’s one of my number one heroes. Ben has endured so much uncertainty, discouragement, and rejection in order to build a career as a full-time professional musician. He’s got serious grit.
I couldn’t imagine a better way to kick off this book than with a story from my big brother—the boy, then teenager, then man who taught me what it means to be a devoted, disciplined artist—and actually make a living doing what you love.
Without further ado…here is Ben’s story.
* * *
Ben: This one time, right after I graduated from college, my friend Shane and I both got invited to audition to tour with Ani DiFranco. She’s an incredible musician who has released more than twenty albums, and she’s considered one of the greatest folk-rock singers of her generation. My friend and I both came into the audition really prepared. We both sounded great. Then…Shane got the gig and I didn’t.
I remember getting the news over the phone. The tour manager called to let me know—and I felt completely crushed. It hit me in my core. I was happy for Shane—he was, and still is, one of my best friends—but I felt so disappointed. This would have been an incredible opportunity for me—touring the world, at age twenty-two, with a world-class artist like Ani. But they chose Shane and not me.
I remember thinking to myself, “Shane is so talented, so if they want him and not me, then maybe that means I’m not good enough to make it as a musician.” I felt so scared and ashamed.
The worst part was that later the same day I was scheduled to perform at a concert—right alongside Shane! I felt so anxious about that performance. I was happy for Shane, of course, but I didn’t want to see him, let alone perform next to him, especially not that same night. It was a real low point.
To help myself feel better, I decided to write out all of my feelings. After getting off the phone with the tour manager, I felt miserable, so I grabbed a beautiful handmade notebook that had been given to me as a birthday present (ironically, it was given to me by a woman named Kali—who later became Shane’s wife).
The notebook was completely blank. I turned to the first page and started to write about how I was feeling. I wrote for about forty-five minutes. I didn’t censor or edit myself. I didn’t worry about grammar. I just vomited everything out onto the page.
Some parts of what I wrote were really petty and jealous, other parts were gracious and generous, and other parts reflected the reality of life as a musician: that sometimes you give your best effort but still don’t get what you want.
By the time I was done writing, I felt so much clearer and calmer—like I had just purged all of these toxins out of my body.
That experience happened almost twenty years ago.
Today, at age forty, I have a very different perspective on criticism than I did at age twenty-two. Back then, not getting chosen for Ani’s tour felt like the end of the world. It felt like “I have no talent” and “I’m never going to succeed.” But now, when something doesn’t pan out the way I’d hoped, my attitude is “OK, so that project isn’t happening—cool. I wonder what’s going to happen instead.”
Because that’s how it works. When someone says “No” to you, that just means that some other opportunity is going to happen instead. Something equally great. Maybe even something better. You just never know.
For example, if I had gotten that job with Ani DiFranco’s tour back when I was twenty-two, then I might not have co-founded my jazz band, Kneebody. The irony is, because of Kneebody, I’ve gotten to tour around the world multiple times over and also received my first Grammy nomination with them. In the end, I got my wish. I got to tour with amazing musicians and see the world. Just because it didn’t happen with Ani didn’t mean that it wasn’t going to happen eventually. The best (and perhaps most ironic) part of all of this is my buddy Shane eventually joined Kneebody and has played alongside me all these years.
I’ve found that one of the best things to do when you’re feeling criticized is to remind yourself that every single artist in the history of mankind has gone through some version of what you’re going through, and has felt some version of what you’re feeling.
It can be helpful to read rejection letters that famous authors received to remind yourself that even Oscar Wilde and Nabokov and J.K. Rowling had their share of discouragement and disappointment. Or you can watch documentaries, listen to interviews, or read biographies about your personal heroes. Or read books like this one. Those types of stories will remind you that everyone has low points, everyone hears “No” sometimes, and it doesn’t mean you’re untalented—it’s just part of the journey of being an artist.
Choosing the artist’s path means saying that you are going to permanently invite criticism, humiliation, self-doubt, and all kinds of uncomfortable feelings into your life. That’s part of the deal. The vulnerability never ends. Not even once you’ve “made” it.
The artist’s path is a brutal, humble, strange one. But we do it because we love it. And the low points can make you stronger.
I’ve read about monks in Tibet who pray for a life that includes suffering, because they know that true wisdom only comes through life’s challenges.
That kind of perspective can make the sting of rejection feel so much easier to bear—and can even make it feel like a beautiful gift.
* * *
SURVIVAL TIP:
When you feel miserable because you didn’t get the job that you wanted, take a cue from Ben: vomit all of your feelings into a journal. Keep writing until you’ve poured out every drop of anger, shame, anxiety, and irritation that you possibly can. Get it all out. Try to get a good night’s sleep…and the next day? Move onward with your job search.
Remember that when someone says “No,” this isn’t the end of your career. It just means that now, you have a chance to create a different kind of opportunity for yourself. Something just as good as the job you didn’t get—or maybe even better.
Thank God They Didn’t Hire Me.
Ben just shared a story about that one time he really wanted to get hired for a worldwide tour with one of his favorite performers—but he didn’t get chosen. His best friend got the job instead, and he felt crushed. Pretty awful.
And yet…
In the end, not getting hired turned out to be a pretty great thing. Because Ben was “stuck at home”—instead of touring around the world—he decided to co-found a jazz band called Kneebody. That band is still going strong today. They even got nominated for a Grammy Award.
Would Ben still have started Kneebody if he’d gotten hired for that tour? Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? It’s interesting to think about, isn’t it? Maybe not getting hired by Ani DiFranco was one of the best things to ever happen to Ben’s career.
Listening to Ben’s story, I found myself remembering a very similar story from my own life. Interestingly, my story also happened when I was in my early twenties, just like Ben. Here’s how it went down…
I was twenty-four years old and working at a major public broadcasting company in the Midwest. It was a job that many people envied. My boss was a powerful, influential man at the company—the head of the entire Broadcast Technology department. I was his assistant and right-hand gal.
My job was a grab-bag position that included all kinds of tasks. Managing my boss’s calendar. Keeping track of our department’s spending. Writing technical manuals and standard operating procedures. Working with the on-air talent to get fifteen- and thirty-second promotional spots recorded on time, and then working with the traffic department to make sure those spots got scheduled into the correct slots. And about a hundred other micro-tasks that needed to get completed every week.
My days were packed with writing assignments, project coordination, endless meetings, and avalanches of emails that all seemed to be marked “urgent.” It was fast-paced and high stress, but the benefits were significant. For starters, I had a very modest—but consistent—paycheck. I had good healthcare coverage. I got to be part of a company that was doing incredible work—producing world-class radio and podcast content that touched people’s lives. That was something to be proud of. And, as long as I worked hard and aced my annual performance review, I could rise through the ranks of the company. Who knows? One day, maybe I could even have my boss’s job.
On paper, my situation seemed like a dream job at a dream company. And I’m sure it was somebody’s dream job. But it wasn’t mine. The truth is…I was pretty miserable.
I was young and scared about being unemployed, so I buried my feelings and repeatedly told myself, “I love my job, I love my job. It’s winter, it’s really cold and dark, that’s the only reason why I’m feeling sort of depressed right now. Things will get better once it’s spring. I just need to hang in there.”
That’s what I told myself…but it just wasn’t true.
The truth, which I was terrified to admit to myself, is that I was gradually beginning to realize that I didn’t want a nine-to-five job. I didn’t want to work in cubicle, then a small office, then a bigger office with a window facing the parking lot. I didn’t want to climb up the ladder for the next forty years and then retire. I didn’t want that life. However, I didn’t know what else I’d rather be doing. I didn’t have a clear “exit strategy” for what I could with my career if I left my current job. I had…zero ideas. So I stayed put.
Then the Great Recession kicked in. The economy buckled. Society panicked. Everyone whispered about “funding cuts” and other scary possibilities. Suddenly, tons of my co-workers started getting laid off. People with kids, aging parents, and mortgages, losing jobs they’d had for ten or twenty years. It was terrifying.
But I had a secret, shameful fantasy that I couldn’t admit to anybody…
I hoped they’d pick me next.
I know it sounds insane, but for me, at that point in my life, getting laid off sounded like…freedom. A fresh start. A second chance. A way to reboot my career and do something different. Something that really excited me.
Of course, I felt incredibly guilty for thinking those kinds of thoughts. My colleagues are getting laid off, left and right. Their lives are being ruined, and here I am, wishing for that! That’s seriously messed up. Besides, I’d worked hard to get the job I currently had. I ought to be grateful. That’s what I convinced myself to believe. I kept my head down, suppressed my feelings, and just chugged along.
Then one day, a guy named Jeff pulled me aside for a chat. Just like my boss, Jeff was an influential person at the company—a department leader, a former theater geek and actor, charismatic, funny, and beloved. Everyone sensed that Jeff was being groomed to replace the current CEO once he retired.
“Alex, we’re creating a new position in my department,” Jeff told me, with a warm smile. “I think you’d be a good fit. If you’re interested, I encourage you to apply.”
I’d always liked Jeff. And I definitely liked the sound of doing something new. He told me a little more about the new position—the responsibilities, the salary (almost double what I was currently earning), and so on. He urged me to throw my hat into the ring. So I applied.
Fairly quickly, Jeff called me in for a job interview. We had a great chat, and I felt good about my chances.
“If I get this new job in a different department…” I thought to myself, “…maybe I’ll be so much happier.”
A few weeks after that, Jeff invited me out for coffee. We walked to Caribou Coffee—which is like a Midwestern version of Starbucks with a prancing moose-like creature in the logo instead of a mermaid. We sat in the food court underneath the harsh fluorescent lights. He smiled kindly. He thanked me, again, for applying for the new position. He explained that they’d had so many qualified applicants, and that it had been a tough choice.
And then he told me, “You’re not getting the job.”
“Oh, that’s no problem, thanks for letting me know…” is how I should have responded.
Bursting into tears is how I actually responded.
I was mortified. It was like all my emotions came bubbling up to the surface, all at once—my frustration about my career, my uncertainty about the future, my lack of purpose, and my aching desire to figure out what the hell I was supposed to be doing with my life—they were all spilling over the edge, and I literally couldn’t stop myself from tearing up. I dabbed at my eyes with a Caribou Coffee napkin and willed myself to stop, stop, stop. “Oh my god, this is so unprofessional,” I thought to myself. “Just stop.” But I couldn’t.
Jeff was probably surprised by this reaction, but because he’s a very classy guy, he barely let it show. Instead, he quietly asked,
“What’s making you cry right now, Alex?”
I considered lying to Jeff and saying something like, “Oh gosh, it’s just been a crazy week, please ignore all of this, please forgive me, let’s just head back to the office.”
Instead, I decided to tell Jeff the truth.
I told him that I was very unhappy at work. I told him that I’d applied for this new job, hoping that a more impressive job title—and a bigger paycheck—would make things feel better and reignite my passion somehow. Even though, in my heart, I knew it probably wouldn’t. This was the first time I’d expressed these feelings to anyone, and it felt like such a massive relief to just…say it.
Jeff listened calmly, nodding, and then asked, “OK. Well, then, what’s next for you?”
Instinctively, I blurted out, “I need to leave this company and do…some other type of work. I don’t know what that will be, but I need to take a chance and try to figure it out.”
He nodded again, and offered to help me figure out my next steps however he could. (Did I mention that Jeff is an amazing guy? He really is.)
One week later, I met with my boss and told him I’d be leaving the company. Instead of the usual “two weeks’ notice,” I asked for a longer transition period—a couple of months, ideally—so that I could gradually phase myself out of the department, train my replacement, and have enough time to figure out my next career move. He agreed to those terms. Just like that, it was official. I was leaving. It was happening.
Four months later, I attended a farewell party that my boss and coworkers threw for me. I hugged everyone goodbye, crumpled up the band posters decorating my cubicle, wiped off my keyboard, and walked out of that building for the last time.
Even after four months of ruminating, I still felt pretty unclear about where my career was heading next. I knew it would have something to do with “writing and words and stuff,” but what exactly, I didn’t know. I was taking a leap of faith—leaving my relatively safe job behind, putting myself out there as a freelance writer-ish-type of person, and hoping that things would work out OK.
In the eight years that followed—after walking away from that broadcasting job—I fought for, hustled for, created, and sometimes serendipitously received writing opportunities that I never could have even dreamed about. I collaborated with over two hundred clients on (literally) thousands of articles, websites, educational programs, books, and other materials that I got to help envision, write, edit, or produce in some capacity. I got a publishing deal. Then another. I also self-published two novels—one of which was recently optioned to be turned into a screenplay. I got my work featured on websites like Forbes, HuffPost, Newsweek, Time, Lifehacker, BuzzFeed, and other exciting places. I figured out how to make a living using my own brain, ten fingers, and a laptop. Even today, all of this is semi-unbelievable to me. But it happened. It’s still happening.
Today, I’ve got my dream career as a full-time, self-employed writer, and the entire journey started…all because Jeff didn’t offer me that fancy job in his department.
When Jeff told me, “Sorry, the position has gone to somebody else,” that tear-soaked, heartfelt, painfully honest conversation was the catalyst that sparked everything.
It’s bizarre when I think about how differently things could have gone. If Jeff had offered me the job, I probably would’ve accepted it. I might’ve continued working at the broadcasting company for another three, five, maybe even ten or fifteen years. Maybe I’d still be working there to this day.
The point of this story, of course, is that sometimes the situation that feels like the worst form of rejection—not getting the job, not getting the promotion, not getting the grant, client, or contract that you want—actually turns out to be a tremendous blessing.
A few years down the road, you might be kneeling on the ground in gratitude, saying to yourself: “Thank God they didn’t hire me.”
Painful as it may be, rejection can be a good thing. Rejection can force you to confront the truth about what you really want—a truth that, maybe, you haven’t admitted to anyone yet, not even yourself. Once the truth is out, it can be dizzying and frightening, but also such a relief. Now, your next chapter can officially begin.
* * *
SURVIVAL TIP:
When you don’t get offered a job that you applied for, remind yourself:
“Well, this is disappointing, but it’s going to be OK. I am going to find—or create—some other type of job opportunity instead. One day, I might be incredibly grateful that this job didn’t work out. This could be a huge blessing in disguise.”
Maybe now, since you didn’t get hired, you’ll finally have time to write that cookbook you’ve been fantasizing about. Maybe now you’ve got time to schedule that long-overdue trip home to visit your mom and dad, and they’ll finally tell you the “real story” of how they met. Maybe now you’ll take a short-term job as a barista and realize that your greatest dream is to run your own coffee shop someday. Maybe now you’ll call up that old colleague to catch up and, lo and behold, maybe she’ll want to hire you.
There’s no telling what could happen next. But whatever it is, it might be even better than any job that you tried to get in the past.
TAKE YOUR BROKEN HEART.
Story contributed by: Susan Hyatt.
Author. Entrepreneur. Life coach. Motivational speaker.
A Note from Alexandra:
When you’re a writer, finding a literary agent is lot like searching for a job. In many ways, it’s the same process. You have to write an enticing email about yourself—an email that will (hopefully) capture a very busy person’s attention. You have to compile documents to prove you’ve got the required experiences and skills. You have to contact a lot of potential agents, cross your fingers, and…wait. It can be a long, tedious process, and it’s one that’s riddled with rejection. Most aspiring authors have to stomach a lot of “No’s” before an agent finally says, “I think you’re terrific, I love your book, and I want to help you get a publishing deal.”
My friend Susan knows all about it, because she just went through the process herself. But her story actually begins a decade earlier—with a shocking crime that temporarily derailed Susan’s entire life. Susan told the entire story to me over the course of a long, emotional phone call. (I was sobbing by the end.)
All you’ll see, Susan is a true survivor, in more ways than one. She’s an inspiration for anybody who wants to achieve a huge, daunting professional goal, and anybody who wants to leave a positive mark on the world. Susan took the single worst experience of her entire life—and she transformed it into art. This is the story of how it happened…
* * *
Susan: Ten years ago, I drove to my local pet store to buy some dog kibble for our new puppy. It was a bright, cheery day. The mid-afternoon light warmed my face. I parked my SUV and walked across the lot behind the store. I saw a man standing near the back entrance, and I smiled politely at him as I passed by. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just another lovely day in the suburbs of Evansville, Indiana.
The next thing I knew, I was face-down on the ground, being dragged along the sharp gravel.
The man covered my mouth and pulled me behind a dumpster. Then he told me that he’d kill my family if I told anyone about this. And then—there’s really no way to make this sound “delicate” or “subtle”—he raped me. In broad daylight. Literally two paces away from the door of the neighborhood pet store.
If you’ve ever been sexually assaulted, first of all, I am so incredibly sorry you had to endure that type of attack. Secondly, you probably know that this type of trauma can impact you in all kinds of complicated, unexpected, and messy ways. Some women immediately want to tell their family and the police. Other women want to block out the memory and pretend it never happened because it’s just too painful to revisit. Other women blame themselves and feel ashamed, as if the whole thing is their fault, which it never is.
My response was to drive home, take a shower, and keep silent. I was traumatized and shocked, and I wasn’t thinking clearly or logically. Also, I was genuinely terrified that this man would “kill my family,” just as he’d promised to do. I tried to wash the attack off my body and forget all about it. I didn’t tell my husband. I didn’t tell a single living soul. I plastered a smile onto my face and continued onward with my life.
Then I found out I was pregnant—and I didn’t know if the child was my husband’s or the rapist’s. I know this sounds like the plot of a twisted daytime soap opera, but it actually happened to me.
After that, I knew I had to talk to my husband and tell him about the pregnancy. In hysterical tears, I told him everything that had happened in that pet store parking lot. He held me tightly while I sobbed and spewed out all of the horrible details.
He was completely stunned. He promised me that we’d get through this. He told me that I could get therapy, counseling, anything I needed to recover from this attack, anything at all. We could try to track down this guy and press charges, if I wanted to. We could do anything I needed. He would be right by my side.
I was so grateful for my husband’s unconditional support. But even with his love and encouragement, I was a complete mess. I was still reeling from the attack, and I was having frequent panic attacks and nightmares where I’d bolt awake with my heart pounding out of my chest, nauseous, dizzy, and sweating like I’d just sprinted through a marathon. I’ve always been a sunny, positive person, but during this chapter of my life, I didn’t feel like “myself” at all. On any given day, I’d swing between feeling anxious…and feeling numb and emotionless.
Ultimately, I miscarried and lost the baby. I continued working full-time and caring for my other two kids. I went to PTA meetings and baked cookies for bake sales. I dutifully visited my therapist’s office once a week. Life just sort of…carried on. But I really wasn’t OK.
Even though everything about my life seemed “fine” to the casual observer, inside I was incredibly anxious, stressed, and unhappy. I couldn’t figure out how to make myself feel better. My medication of choice became food.
I started snacking mindlessly all throughout my workday—chips, chocolate, whatever was lying around—just to distract myself from all of the complicated, uncomfortable emotions I was feeling. Back at home, after work, I’d make a huge platter of Brie cheese, bread, crackers, more chips, and wine, and I’d eat the entire thing while zoning out in front of the TV, watching shows I didn’t even enjoy.
I was trying to escape my own body, trying to tune out everything I was thinking and feeling. And you know what? It worked. Food can be a really effective escape hatch, at least temporarily. But of course, eating constantly does carry some unwanted consequences.
I wound up gaining almost forty pounds in the span of just a few months. I’m a short woman with a petite build, so this felt like an enormous amount of excess weight on my frame. Now, on top of feeling distraught over the rape, and the miscarriage, I also felt ashamed for not having enough willpower to eat properly and stay thin. Misery on top of misery.
For about a year, I tried every diet known to womankind. Weight Watchers. South Beach. Atkins. Jenny Craig. I counted calories, carbs, and points. I boiled vats of tasteless, bland, low-sodium cabbage soup. I starved myself with carrot sticks, celery stalks, and sugar-free candies, and then binged on massive plates of enchiladas to “reward” myself for being so “good.”
I got myself into a sick, twisted cycle of dieting and bingeing, losing and regaining, over and over and over. At one point, my body was so malnourished and depleted from the constant dieting, my hair started to fall out.
Watching those blonde strands swirl down the shower drain, I had an epiphany.
“This shouldn’t be happening. I need to stop dieting and figure out some other way to lose weight, because this isn’t healthy.”
It didn’t happen overnight, but in the months that followed, I figured out how to start treating my body like a friend instead of an enemy.
I taught myself how to slow down and actually taste and savor my food, instead of stuffing myself mindlessly. I decluttered my closet and got rid of my “beige, boring mom” clothes—anything that made me feel tired or frumpy. I decluttered my circle of friends, too, and I ended a couple of relationships. Back then, I had a lot of “friends” who didn’t act like true friends at all, and who only wanted to get together to eat poorly, drink, and complain about their bodies, whine about their husbands, or gossip about other women. I didn’t want that type of negativity rubbing off on me anymore, so I distanced myself from those people. It was like a “detox” for my social life. I felt lighter and happier immediately.
I also challenged myself to be a little braver, and to do things that scared me. Little things, like posing for a family photo with my kids, even though I didn’t feel “thin enough” yet. Gradually, I challenged myself to do bigger things, like enrolling in a certification program to become a life coach, and eventually, quitting my job in real estate so that I could do coaching full-time.
Week by week, month by month, I continued to shed all types of things: old clothes that I didn’t like wearing, depressing diet books, stacks of magazines filled with unrealistic images, toxic relationships, and social obligations that bored me.
As I continued to strip away everything that had been weighing me down, an amazing thing happened: I lost weight, too. It happened gradually and naturally, without any calorie-counting or obsessive behavior. It just…happened.
My entire life was transforming, and my body was transforming right along with it.
It felt like a miracle—and it was a miracle that I wanted to share with as many women as possible.
In the years that followed, I started offering weight loss coaching to women in my community, and then eventually to clients that I met online, based all over the world. Women loved hearing my personal story of transformation, and they loved my “no diet” approach to weight loss, which felt so different from anything they’d been encouraged to do before. Over and over, clients emailed me to say “I’m losing weight, just like you said I would, but that’s just the beginning. I also found the courage to apply for my dream job!” or “I finally launched my online jewelry shop!” or “I booked that vacation that I’ve been putting off forever!” or “I asked that cute guy at the dog park out on a date.”
I noticed a distinct pattern: when women stop dieting, and stop obsessing over their size, ironically, that’s when they finally start losing weight. In the process, they become braver and bolder. They start asking for raises at work. They start demanding more help around the house. They lunge after exciting opportunities instead of hiding and waiting until “later.” Their lives expand in all kinds of ways. This isn’t just about “weight loss.” It’s a female empowerment revolution. It’s about treating yourself like a woman who matters, and who’s worthy of respect.
I wanted to write a book about my story—a book that would guide women through a weight loss process unlike anything they’d seen or tried before. My clients told me, “Yes! I’d buy that book in a heartbeat.” My Facebook community—which had grown to over ten thousand fans by this point—echoed the excitement. “Do it!” “Write it!” “I want to buy a copy for my daughter!” “Please write it ASAP.”
I holed up for five days with Alexandra, my writing mentor, and poured out the book. Hundreds and hundreds of pages of material. Stories from my own life. Stories from my clients’ lives. Specific, actionable guidance on how to lose weight without harming yourself in the process—and guidance on how to become braver and feel unstoppable.
After that, we created a very detailed book proposal to describe why this book needed to get published, and why it would be a smash-hit success and sell millions of copies. (Well, hopefully!)
With that, it was time for me to start emailing literary agents. I needed to find someone who would believe in this book as much as I did.
I wish I could say that it was a quick and easy process. I wish I could tell you that I woke up the very next morning and three agents had already emailed me to say, “I love you! Your book is a work of sheer genius!”
But, no. That’s not what happened. What actually happened is…I contacted twelve different agents. And I received twelve rejections. Bam, bam, bam. One after another.
A few agents were actually pretty rude to me, and basically told me:
“Customers want diet books, and this isn’t a diet book, so I don’t think any publisher will be interested in this project.”
I wanted to email back with a sassy tone and say:
“Yeah, I know it’s not a diet book. Because diets suck and they ruin women’s lives. That’s literally the entire point of my book.”
(I restrained myself from saying that, but just barely.)
After receiving the twelfth rejection in a row, I started to cry. Hot, sloppy, messy tears, while clutching my iPhone in my car outside the gym. I’m a strong woman, but twelve “No’s” is a lot for anybody to stomach.
I felt so misunderstood. Why couldn’t anyone “see” what I was trying to achieve with this book? Why didn’t they understand that I was trying to save women’s lives, crush the diet industry, and start a health revolution? Why wasn’t that message coming across clearly? What was I “missing” here?
I have to admit: I felt really defeated and irritated. For a while, I stopped emailing agents. I just completely stopped trying. For about six months, I put my book on the backburner and busied myself with other projects, like working with clients, leading retreats, and doing speaking engagements. It was a full, exciting, and very profitable year for my coaching practice, and there were plenty of other projects to distract me from the book. But oh…the book. The book kept nagging at me the entire time, saying, “Please don’t forget about me.”
My clients kept nagging me, too. “Did you find an agent yet?” “Whatever happened with your book?” “When is the book coming out?” “When can I pre-order it?”
The end of the year was fast approaching. I stared at my calendar. I stared at the book proposal Word document that had been sitting on my computer desktop for ages, ignored and unattended. And I realized: “I can’t procrastinate anymore. It’s time to find a literary agent, get a book deal, and get this book into bookstores. I’ve got to try again.”
I freshened up my book proposal, made a new list of agents to contact, and dove back into the boiling water, headfirst.
Then I had…a gutsy idea.
There was one literary agent that I had contacted many months ago. She’d said “No thanks” to my book concept, but unlike some of the other agents, she had been very kind and gracious about it. My intuition told me to circle back and pitch her again. So I did.
I told her, “I’ve revamped my book proposal. It’s better than ever. I’ve attached it to this email, just in case you’d like to review it again.” At the bottom of my email, I included a link to a video clip of Beyoncé strutting into a room in queenly attire, wearing a crown, to let her know, “I mean business.” She loved that.
“Anybody who includes a Beyoncé clip in their email is someone I want to know,” she told me. She reviewed my sparkly new proposal—and she was impressed. She wanted to talk on the phone ASAP. Less than two weeks later, the ink was dry on the contract, and I officially had a big-shot literary agent. Lifelong goal: achieved.
I know that I’m going to see my book on bookshelves someday soon. I have the manuscript, I have the agent, I have deep determination, and it’s all just a matter of time. It’s been a long, winding road to get to this point in my career, filled with so much heartache. As Oprah might say, here’s what I know for sure:
1. You’ve got to “take your broken heart and turn it into art.”
That’s a direct quote from the late, great actress Carrie Fisher. The absolute worst thing that’s ever happened to you? Most likely, that’s a goldmine of material for you to write about, speak about, and sing about. People want to hear the story of how you survived. We all need, crave, yearn for those types of stories. You story will make other people stronger when they hear it.
2. Just because someone says “No” once doesn’t mean it’s a “No” forever.
I circled back to an agent who had rejected me in the past. The second time around, she said “Yes.” Don’t be afraid to swing back to a company, client, or agent who wasn’t interested in you before. Things might be different now. You might be different now.
3. If there’s a project or goal that’s burning in your heart, begging to be completed, don’t ignore it.
Don’t leave it on the backburner forever. You’ll regret it.
And lastly, to whomever is reading this story, remember that the founder of Pandora received three hundred rejections before getting funding for his project. J.K. Rowling received twelve “No’s” before a publisher expressed interest in Harry Potter. Mark Ruffalo went on six hundred auditions before landing his first acting role.
Take courage from those people’s stories—and from mine. Dust off your shoulders and put yourself back into the ring. You’ve got to be tenacious, courageous, and willing to tolerate the temporary moments of discouragement that will inevitably arise.
Get back in there. One more letter. One more revision. One more try.
Your big break could be one email away.
* * *
SURVIVAL TIP:
Don’t be afraid to contact someone more than once. The start-up company that couldn’t afford to hire you last year might be in a totally different position today. Maybe now they’ve got plenty of funding and they’d love to hire someone like you. The literary agent who said “No” to your initial proposal might be impressed by your second revision. “No thanks” is not always a permanent decision. Be gutsy, be persistent, and try again.
Also: “Take your broken heart and turn it into art.”
The worst experience of your life can become the spark, the fuel, the inspiration for the greatest thing you ever make.
I’VE ALREADY WON.
Story contributed by: Niki Driscoll.
Author. Athlete. Nutrition and food cravings consultant.
A Note from Alexandra:
As a kid, I was painfully shy and unathletic. I hated sports. I loathed PE class. I was terrified of getting smacked in the face with a basketball. I couldn’t swing a softball bat to save my life. Running sent me into fits of asthmatic wheezing.
One time, on a school field trip, a classmate dared me to climb up a swinging ladder thingy. It was a high-stakes dare. If I chickened out or couldn’t make it to the top, then I had to eat ashes. Like, actual ashes from a campfire. (Why there was a blazing campfire, a tall ladder, and apparently no adult supervision, I cannot recall! Well, I guess it’s because it was the early nineties—the pre-smartphone era, before parents tracked their kids’ movements with GPS systems.)
Obviously, I couldn’t climb the swinging ladder thingy. So of course, I had to eat ashes. While everybody watched.
I was horrified. I kinda thought if I ate ashes, you know, maybe I’d…die? So I tried to cheat by eating a tiny speck of blackened marshmallow dust instead of real ashes, but oh, my classmate was wise to that game! He called me out—“That’s not real ash! Faker! Faker!”—in front of the other kids, who stared at me with disgusted expressions. After all, there’s only one thing worse than a non-athletic, asthmatic nerdball—and that’s a non-athletic, asthmatic nerdball who’s also a cheater and a faker.
Fortunately, shortly after that incident, someone found the word “penis” in the dictionary and then everyone was distracted by that revelation and forgot all about me.
Suffice it to say: when it came to athletics, I was a dud. The kid you picked last. The kid you didn’t want on your team because she was a liability, not a helpful addition.
By age eight or nine, I had accepted the reality of my situation: I was a useless blob. I usually found some way of avoiding PE class—excuses, feigned illness, actual illness, bribery, persuasive rhetoric. Reading in the library made me happy. Sports did not.
Then one day, a teacher encouraged my parents to sign me up for dance classes. It would be a good way for me to get some exercise, she thought. Maybe I’d enjoy dancing more than regular sports. And maybe dancing would improve my posture, make me a little less clumsy, and transform me into a beautiful, confident, graceful butterfly. Et cetera.
My parents found an after-school dance program and signed me up. Much to their surprise, and mine, I immediately loved it.
Now, let’s be clear, I wasn’t the greatest dancer in the entire world. Even after seven years of dance classes, I still wasn’t Martha Graham or Mikhail Baryshnikov. But I truly loved it.
Dancing felt like “acting,” in a way. When I was dancing, I could temporarily pretend to be someone else—a village maiden, a handsome prince, a sugarplum queen, a cursed girl cruelly trapped in a swan’s body. I could express the kinds of feelings that I couldn’t put into words. I loved training. I loved rehearsing. I loved performing. What I didn’t love was…auditioning.
Three or four times a year, my dance school would put together a big performance. Sometimes it was a full-length ballet. Sometimes it was a variety show with tap dancing, jazz, hip hop, and so forth. Each time, you had to audition in front of the teachers.
First, they’d watch you dance for a few minutes with blank, expressionless faces. Then you had to line up with all the other dancers, in order of height, facing yourself in the mirror. The teachers would pace back and forth, staring back at you, scanning you up and down, quietly murmuring things to one another, and making notes on a clipboard.
Then a few days later, they’d post a list in the hallway of the dance studio. You’d scurry up and search for your name. And that’s how you’d find out if you got a fantastic part in the show—like Queen of the Flowers—or a less-desirable part—like Background Rat Number Seven.
I absolutely hated the audition process. To me, it always felt awkward and stressful, and it twisted my stomach into knots. It was kind of like a job interview—except instead of having a private conversation in an air-conditioned office with one hiring manager, you’re having your “interview” in a brightly lit mirrored studio, wearing a tiny leotard, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with forty other people who all want the same job as you.
Yikes.
I’ve always had the utmost respect for professional dancers, actors, and athletes—people who have to do auditions and tryouts over and over and over. Sometimes, multiple times a week, or even multiple times a day. I’ve always wondered, “Good Lord. How do they do that?” It must feel stressful and exhausting every single time…right?
As I learned from the next storyteller, Niki Driscoll…that’s not necessarily the case.
As she explained to me, auditioning doesn’t have to be an exhausting, demoralizing process. Auditioning can actually be really exciting, empowering, and fun—even if you don’t get selected. You can leave any audition—or job interview—feeling proud of yourself. You can walk away feeling like, “I’ve already won.” Even if you don’t get hired.
How on earth is that possible? Well, I’ll let her tell you…
* * *
Niki: My mother badgered me into joining the pep squad in the fifth grade.
This wasn’t a high-pressure situation. There were no tryouts. Anyone who wanted to participate was welcome to join the squad. Even so, I was paralyzed with anxiety. I was afraid of looking stupid, being perceived as ugly, messing up a dance routine, and being whispered about behind my back. During each pep rally, my movements were timid and I only mouthed the words—no sound actually emerged. Peppy? Not exactly. Yet—despite my timidity—a big part of me loved performing in front of an audience. I had caught the “cheerleader fever.” I yearned for a chance to do it again.
Years later, I tried out for the cheerleading squad at my high school. I didn’t get selected. I tried to make the squad multiple times. No success. I’d replay the tryouts in my mind, over and over, tormented with humiliation.
Eventually, I stopped trying to be a cheerleader. I joined the running team instead. Turns out, I was good at it. With cross-country running, I could shed my insecurities. Each competition literally allowed me to disappear into the woods.
While I excelled at running, the yearning to dance, cheer, and perform never left me. Some people are just born to cheer! At various points in my life, complete strangers have asked me, “Are you a cheerleader?” The question always created a regret-filled lump in my throat because in high school and college, I was never given the chance.
My desire to perform did not dissipate with age—it only grew stronger. Except there aren’t a ton of opportunities for a thirty-year-old woman with a full-time job and two kids to twirl onto a football field and shake her pom-poms in the air.
Maybe the opportunity was long gone.
Maybe I’d never get to realize my dream.
Maybe…
But some part of me just couldn’t accept that.
At age thirty, I decided to train for a bikini competition, a type of bodybuilding where you are judged based on your physique, particularly muscle symmetry, as well as your stage presence and personality. In some ways, it’s like cheerleading, but without the leaping and cartwheels.
After months of training and preparation, the big competition arrived. I stepped onstage, baking under the bright spotlights. The music played. I struck my first pose. I vowed to stay centered, channeling positivity and enthusiasm.
It wasn’t easy. The judges were…very judge-y. They all wore looks on their faces that made you feel like a product of obvious self-delusion—like you didn’t belong there. I tuned them out and kept telling myself to embody the energy of the feminine, the divine, and pure joy. Silently, inside my mind, as I moved from pose to pose, I repeated over and over to myself, “I am feminine. Divine. Pure joy.”
And you know what? I rocked my first competition, placing in the top five against women a decade younger than me. It gave me a surge of confidence. I promised myself that I would keep pursuing opportunities to perform.
I kept that promise.
A few years after my first bikini competition, a friend and former NFL team member suggested that I try out for the Saintsations—the official cheerleading squad for the New Orleans Saints.
It was just two weeks before tryouts. I had already missed both preparatory workshops, and the rest of the contestants had been practicing for six weeks. It was a total long shot because I was woefully under-prepared. But I wanted to put myself out there anyway—to test my emotional control.
Would I be able to maintain a smile on my face, enjoy performing, and genuinely have fun—even if I felt completely out of my league? It was sure to be an interesting challenge.
My rules were simple:
1 No comparing myself with the other women.
2 If I forgot a portion of the choreography, I had to maintain my confident, upbeat energy and move on immediately without pausing.
3 No self-berating. I will be kind to myself.
I followed those rules—and my Saintsations audition was one of the best performances of my life. I messed up a couple of times, but I maintained my poise and had a ridiculous amount of fun.
In the end, I was not chosen to join the Saintsations, but I did make it through the first round of cuts, and I was the happiest girl on the planet—floating on air, so proud of myself. I brought joy and excitement into the audition and it showed.
I’ve learned that when I’m facing a critical panel of judges, the best thing to do is to ignore their stern facial expressions and to focus on the persona I want to project into the room. By repeating a phrase like “I am feminine. Divine. Pure joy.” inside of my mind, I can step into that role and express those qualities with every cell in my body. It’s like “acting,” except the difference is that I’ve trained myself to believe it’s true.
I’ve also learned that it is very powerful to set your own personal rules for competitions or any other situation where you’re being judged or critiqued. This feels so amazing, because it puts the power back in your hands. Rather than relying on the judges’ decision to feel validated, you can validate yourself.
If your rules are…
1 I’m here to have fun.
2 I’m not going to berate myself.
3 I’m going to fill the room with positive energy.
…and you succeed in following those rules, then you’ve already won.
* * *
SURVIVAL TIP:
If you’ve got an audition, a job interview, an important meeting, or a networking event coming up soon, create some “personal rules” that you intend to follow. If you don’t like the word “rule,” you can call these “guidelines” or “policies” or “intentions.”
You might decide:
1 I will ask three people, “What was the best part of your day so far?”
2 I will to introduce Sharon to Nicholas, because I have a feeling they’d hit it off.
3 I will find someone who looks bored and lonely and I’ll chat with them.
4 I will not compare myself to anybody else.
5 I will brighten the room and spread positivity.
If you succeed in following your own personal rules, then you can leave that interview, audition, meeting, or event feeling proud of yourself. Regardless of what happens next, you’ll know that you did what you intended to do.
How Hard are You Trying, Really?
My friend Susan (remember her story from a few pages ago?) has a teenage daughter named Emily. Emily is one of those teenagers who seems much older and wiser than any sixteen-year-old could possibly be. She’s funny. She’s thoughtful. She knows far more about history and politics than most grown-ups. When (when, not “if”) Emily runs for President, she’s got my vote.
During her sophomore year in high school, Emily started her own theater company. But not just any theater company. It’s a revolutionary theater company that produces classic plays and Broadway musicals—but with an all-female cast. The Tempest—with a female Prospero. Les Misérables—with a female Javert. 1776—with a female Ben Franklin. You get the idea.
Emily wants to give women and girls the chance to play all of the amazing, exciting roles that are typically reserved for men and boys. She wants to make a statement about women’s roles in our society: “We’re not hiding in the back row anymore. We’re not playing the ‘less-important’ parts anymore. We want full access to all of the same opportunities as men. We want to be center-stage.”
Did I mention she’s sixteen years old?
#EmilyForPresident
Shortly after launching her theater company, Emily found herself facing a problem: she couldn’t find enough women who wanted to audition to be in her first show. She needed twenty-two cast members, but so far, she only had ten.
The first rehearsal session was fast approaching. Emily started to panic. Even though she’s an incredibly courageous young woman, this particular obstacle felt like…too much to handle.
With tears in her eyes, Emily told her mom, Susan, “I can’t see how I’m going to find twelve more cast members in the next couple weeks. I don’t know what to do. I’ve already asked everybody.”
Emily felt completely discouraged. Like maybe this whole theater company was going to fail before the very first rehearsal even happened. Like maybe the whole thing was a dumb idea.
Her mom listened and then said, “OK, Em. You said you’ve asked ‘everybody’. Who is ‘everybody’? How many people have you asked to audition exactly?”
Emily thought about it, and then said, “Fifteen people.”
Susan said, “OK. We live in a city with over one hundred thousand people. Fifteen people is just a tiny fraction of our population. ‘Fifteen people’ is not ‘everybody.’ Not even remotely close. If you want to find twelve more cast members, you need to contact a lot more than just fifteen people.”
I’m happy to report: Emily listened to her smart mom. She pulled herself together and—with her mom’s help—she came up with a fresh strategy to find twelve more cast members. They started texting, emailing, calling, putting up new flyers all around town, and pounding the pavement. Their efforts paid off. Within twenty-four hours, Emily found four more cast members. Boom-shaka-laka! Success! Their efforts paid off, and the project was back on track.
Emily’s predicament feels so relatable to me. Maybe for you, too?
So often in life, when we’re facing a challenge, we say to ourselves: “Ugh! This is impossible! I’ve contacted everybody! I’ve tried everything!”
But…really?
Everybody?
Everything?
You sure about that?
When we take a step back and look at the numbers, we typically discover that we haven’t actually talked to “everybody” and we haven’t tried “everything.” Not even close.
OK, sure. Maybe you talked to ten people about your project. “Ten people” is not “everybody.” Maybe you applied for five scholarships. Five scholarships is not “every scholarship.” Maybe you told seven people that you’re searching for a new job. Seven people is not “everybody.” Seven people is just…seven people. There are seven billion people on planet earth. Seven people is a microscopic fraction of the human population.
Your mind is tricking you, trying to convince you that you’ve made such a huge effort when in reality…maybe that’s not actually true.
I fell into this mental trap a few years ago. It was right before my first book was scheduled to hit the shelves. I wanted to promote the book, and I got this notion that I should be on TV. I came up with a fun idea for a morning talk show segment.
I emailed a producer at the local TV news station to pitch my idea. I didn’t hear back, so I emailed again. No response. Then I pulled out the big guns. I recorded a voice note—a little MP3 file explaining my TV segment idea—and I attached that MP3 to my third email.
“Oh yeah!” I thought to myself. “Nobody sends a voice note. That’s really going to make my email stand out. They’ll definitely contact me after hearing this.”
Nope. No response.
After that, I felt so dejected and confused.
“But…but…I emailed three times! And I even recorded a voice note!”
And yet, they still didn’t invite me to appear on TV. It made no sense to me. In my mind, I had tried “everything.”
Looking back, I have to laugh at myself, because obviously…I didn’t try “everything.” I sent a couple of emails. Sure, I made an effort to get myself booked on TV, but all things considered, I made a relatively small effort. I didn’t do “everything.” I did “a couple things.” I could have made a much bigger effort to achieve my goal.
For starters, I could have put together an impressive media packet. I could have mailed that packet to the TV station. Or I could have dropped it off in person. I could have asked all of my friends for help. “Do you know anyone who works in TV? Could you make an introduction for me?” I could have attended events where journalists and TV producers hang out. I could have marched up and introduced myself. But I didn’t do any of those things, because I was too lazy and timid. Instead, I hid in my apartment, fired off a couple quick emails, and called it a day. And then I whined when I didn’t get what I wanted. That’s the unpleasant truth.
We all slip into this kind of thinking. We all get frustrated, tired, and discouraged. It’s happened to me, many times. It happened to Emily. It’s probably happened to you, too.
Maybe you say you’re “so ready” for an exciting new job, promotion, or some other big career opportunity, but then instead of making a full-hearted effort to get what you want, you made a half-hearted effort. Or a quarter-hearted effort.
The truth is, most of the time, we’re not operating at full capacity. Not even close. We refuse to dig deep. We make excuses. We flake out. We hold back. We send off one or two emails and then we grumble when we don’t get what we want. As Emily’s wise mom once said to me, it’s fine if you want to hold back. It’s fine if you want to Netflix and Chill. But if that’s what you choose, well, then…
“Don’t be mad about the results you didn’t get from the work you didn’t do.”
I’m not advocating that anybody push themselves to the point of injury, burnout, or adrenal failure. I’m all for balance and relaxation. I literally have three beds in my one-bedroom apartment: sleeping bed, TV-watching-and-sometimes-guest bed, and outside-balcony bed.
What I’m saying—mostly to myself, because I need to re-learn this lesson continually—is that before you decide that your dream is “impossible” or that it’s “taking too long to find a new job,” check in with yourself. Do an honest assessment of your efforts. See if you’re actually trying as hard as you could be.
And if you haven’t been trying that hard, hey, that’s OK. That doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you a person who’s facing some important choices:
Give up—or go harder?
Accept defeat—or try again?
Hide in your bedroom behind your laptop screen—or get outside, talk to actual people, and be gutsy and brave?
Convince yourself you’ve tried everything—or actually try? This time, with feeling?
What’s it going to be?
* * *
SURVIVAL TIP:
The next time you feel discouraged because you feel like you’ve “tried everything,” take a cue from Emily and Emily’s mom, and make a list of what you’ve actually done.
How many people have you actually contacted? How many jobs have you actually applied for? How many events have you actually attended? How many informational interviews have you lined up? How many of your friends, family members, colleagues, and classmates have you contacted to ask for help? And so on.
Make a list. Look at the numbers. Have you truly pursued every possible opportunity? Have you been making a full-hearted effort, or a half-hearted effort?
When we tell ourselves, “Ugh. I’ve already tried everything,” we’re usually being delusional. Most likely, you haven’t tried everything. Most likely, you’ve just barely scratched the surface.
Try again. This time, with your whole heart. This time, put some muscle into it.
Watch what happens next.
THE UNIVERSE HAD BETTER PLANS FOR ME.
Story contributed by: Robert Hartwell.
Actor. Singer. Dancer. Choreographer. Founder of The Broadway Dance Collective.
A Note from Alexandra:
It was late afternoon. I was settling into my chair on the sixth floor of an opulent NYC hotel. I’d been invited to attend an ultra-fancy high tea party. But not just any tea party. It was a client’s ten-year business anniversary party, and the room was filled with fascinating entrepreneurs, consultants, literary agents, and other creative types. The atmosphere was elegant and refined, like a scene straight out of Downton Abbey. Porcelain tea pots. Tiny sandwiches. Currant scones and cream. Champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries. The whole nine yards. I kept smoothing out my hair, hoping I looked relatively presentable.
“Everyone, everyone, this is Robert, and he has a surprise for us,” my client announced, tinkling her spoon onto her champagne glass to get our attention.
Robert rose from his chair—impeccably dressed in an electric blue suit with a pink and purple cravat—marched over to the speakers, flipped a switch, and suddenly the room was filled with…Beyoncé.
“Ladies, we’re going to get a little nasty. You OK with that?” Robert asked.
Oh yes. We were OK with that.
Robert explained that—before sipping our tea—we were all going to learn a synchronized dance number. A few women in the room looked slightly horrified. “Dancing? Here? Now?” But Robert launched into the sequence, and within minutes, he had every single woman in the room swiveling, shimmying, snapping, and stomping around. The dance culminated with a booty-popping moment and a dramatic hair flip. Everyone participated. No one refused. Robert’s energy was completely infectious, and we all got swept up in the delightful madness of it all. (The hotel staff enjoyed a pretty unforgettable show, too!)
Needless to say, it was the best tea party I’ve ever attended. Towards the end of the event, I gave Robert a massive hug, we exchanged phone numbers, and I knew we were going to become instantaneous friends. I also had a feeling that I ought to interview him for this book. “I bet he’s got a story or two,” I thought to myself. And he certainly does.
