You’re staring at the screen, your finger hovering over the submit button as you run through your application materials one last time — the artist statement you’ve rewritten seven (oh, wait…now eight) times, the project budget you’ve tweaked and retweaked, the work samples you’ve agonized over selecting. We’ve all hit submit with the same, well-worn mixture of hope and resignation.
Six weeks later, an all-too-familiar rejection email arrives with distant, polite language that somehow makes the "no" sting even more. At this point, I consider myself somewhat of a rejection collector. A connoisseur of we regret to’s, if you will. Whether it’s a sun-soaked sculpture residency or a dreamy writing fellowship, each application folder starts with hope, blossoms with determination, and fizzles out inside a distant decisionmaker’s spreadsheet. Each folder, seemingly a path to nowhere.
🌫️ silence as fog
If you’re anything like me, your social media feed overflows with announcements of grants received, exhibitions opened, and reviews published. But the rejections? Those live in the shadows, creating a distorted reality where everyone else seems to be succeeding effortlessly while you (and only you) collect a private shame heap of "no thank you" emails.
The math tells a different story. According to the Guggenheim Foundation, they receive 3,000 applications each year, yet they only fund 175 — a success rate of just 5.8%. For many big grants and opportunities, success rates fall below 15% or even 10%. It’s important to note, though, that these aren't failure rates; they're the natural contours of a field where demand for grant funds far exceeds the (visible) supply and zero sum competition is an unquestioned industry norm. We’ve said it before, but it’s worth saying again and again: it’s not necessarily your fault you’re not receiving grant awards.
And yet, the silence around rejection creates a profound and unnecessary isolation. We begin to believe we're uniquely unsuccessful, that everyone else has cracked some code we're missing, that our creative work isn’t worth pursuing.
🧭 rejection as navigation
What if rejection isn't the opposite of success, but part of its geography? What if those "no’s" aren't verdicts on the worthiness of our creative work, but data points helping us navigate towards a more fulfilling creative life?
I've started keeping a rejection journal to look for patterns and make my own meaning from this imperfect system. Which applications felt like a stretch, and which felt like authentic matches? What feedback did I receive, even in the form of silence? Where was I trying to fit my squiggle-peg art into square-hole opportunities?
This practice has revealed something surprising: my failures have been incredibly educational. They've taught me to articulate my vision more clearly, to research opportunities more thoroughly, to consider other people’s perspectives, to build a case with numbers and stories, and — most importantly — to trust my instincts about where my work belongs. They've also taught me the kind of resilience that only comes from doing the thing you're afraid of repeatedly until it no longer terrifies you.
💐 failure as flowers
If it’s any consolation, every artist who has put their work out there has collected a bouquet of “we regret to…” emails, voicemails, and letters. Octavia Butler’s Kindred was rejected 15 times before it was finally published. Walt Disney was fired from the Kansas City Star in 1919 because his editor said he "lacked imagination and had no good ideas" (oof!). Vincent van Gogh, Toni Morrison, Lady Gaga, Hassan Sharif — to say we are in good company is an understatement.
Although I don’t know them personally (yet), I’ll bet that Octavia and Walt didn’t create beautiful things despite their rejections and failures — they were shaped by them. Rejections are rarely detours from some imagined, unblemished artistic journey; they are essential and defining and motivating (if we let them). While taking this perspective doesn't make rejection sting any less, it does give me agency and perspective. When I receive a rejection now, I try to remember that it’s mine to interpret and repurpose as fuel. I get to decide what to do with it, and I'm joining a long tradition of artists who heard "no" before they heard "yes"—often many, many times.
🧺 daily rituals for the long haul
Living as an artist in a field built on rejection requires intentional practices to maintain both sanity and creative momentum. Practically, here's what I've learned to do:
🧮 Track the Whole Picture: I keep a simple spreadsheet of all my applications — grants, residencies, exhibitions, everything. Seeing the full ratio reminds me that rejection is mathematical, not personal. It also helps me celebrate the incremental wins that might otherwise get lost in the rat race.
🎉Celebrate the Courage to Try: Every application you submit is a victory, regardless of the outcome. I've started acknowledging the bravery it takes to put my work into the world, over and over again. That courage deserves recognition, even if it's just from me. Some artists have even started sharing their “shadow CV” — a list of all the residencies, fellowships, awards, gigs, and grants they applied for and didn’t get.
🥇Diversify Your Definition of Success: Measuring success only by external validation — grants won, shows accepted, awards received — leaves you working at the whim of an arbitrary system. I’ve tried asking myself new questions: Did I push my work in a new direction? Did I describe my work more confidently in my last studio visit? Did I help an artist pal navigate a challenging application? There’s a rich pasture of possibility and community on the other side of seeking external validation.
🎈Build a Practice of Gratitude: Not the toxic positivity kind, but the specific, easy-to-miss kind. I keep a running note in my phone of moments that remind me why I love making art — a stranger's response to my work, an interesting problem solved, a connection made. These moments carry me through the inevitable rejection cycles and creative seasons.
🕸️Stay Connected: The isolation of rejection is partly structural and partly self-imposed. I've learned to reach out to other artists, to turn on the kettle and share my rejection tea just as enthusiastically as my wins. Thankfully, every time I mention a rejection, someone else shares their own, making it easy to build a practice of transparency and learning. I apologize in advance for the following, *very-necessary* High School Musical GIF:
🐝 feeling the sting means you’re alive & you tried
I still feel that familiar knot in my stomach when I open rejection emails (the subject line always gives it away). I don't think that will ever fully go away, and maybe it shouldn't? That sting means I care, that I'm invested, that I'm brave enough to put my work where it can be evaluated and sometimes found wanting.
But now I know what comes after the sting: I close the laptop, take a walk, feel the disappointment fully, and then phone a friend to share the exciting news. These days, “I got rejected!” means I get to update my color-coded spreadsheet, blast some Avril Lavigne break up music, re-read Kindred, and steep in the joy of my whacky little creative journey.
What practices have helped you navigate rejection in your creative work? Share your experiences in the comments — let's bust the silence around our losses and celebrate the inevitable ups and downs of a truly artistic life.
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