On May 3rd, I did something I would have never thought I would ever do in all my years on this earth. I plucked up the courage to go and talk to a guy I was interested in. To set the scene, it was Colour Conference, women were everywhere with their auroral flower crowns, flowing dresses and beautiful smiles, hand in hand with each other, bubbling with excitement and anticipation.  And the men? well, the men were kindly serving as hosts, ushers and even 'coffee-picker-uppers' with many guys even flying in just to be a part of the experience - how gracious right? On the first day of Colour, my eyes settled on a most dapper gentleman, let’s call him ‘Killmonger’ (He had the same locs à la Micheal B Jordan in Black Panther ahahaha). Killmonger was a sight to behold, a seemingly lovely sienna hued gent by way of Paris. So after spotting him - I did what any normal gal would do and did my research, asking a few of the guys on his team what my man was saying init? Success! He was single and apparently open to mingling. Day two of colour, drunk with courage after Erwin McManus had encouraged us to be courageous, I went with my friend to go and talk to him and his friend, and what transpired was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Killmonger seemed averse to conversing with me and he... quite literally began to migrate,  his answers to my nervous questions about how he was enjoying the conference short, fast and very awkward. After taking the strong hint that he was certainly not interested, we slinked away with my friends embarrassingly asking loudly how it went as I almost burst into a jog to get away. His abrupt manner left me blinking back hot mortified tears on the Jubilee line to West Hampstead that night. When I got home that evening, tears poured out of my eyes like the dam that was holding them had shattered with my confidence, and within my choked prayers, I realised my sadness was so much bigger than getting rejected by a random French monsieur at a women’s conference.

Dress c/o Traffic People
Bag - Nasty Gal (via Yossy's Wardrobe)
Heels - Primark

No that was the ice block and underneath was a gigantic iceberg of all the rejection, fear and pain I’d been inadvertently holding onto over the decades. You see, for me, I blindingly chase perfection in everything I do. If I ever sense risk, I am stupidly averse to even look in its direction for the fear of things not working out impeccably, feels like too much of a cross for me to bear - Nuts I know, I’m not sure whether it is the perfectionism spirit of my Virgo ancestors that rests upon my soul so strongly or a deep nested fear that rejection is a reflection of what I believe to be my own personal inadequacies. Wow, we got deep pretty quickly right?
I’ve found that rejection for me, feels like a mirror being held up to my face, a mirror with a sad version of me in it, surrounded by crimson lipsticked scribbles of ‘failure’, ‘unworthy’, ‘useless’, ‘unwanted’ and more gleaming on the glinting surface of the gilded mirror, and it took a while for me to realise that rejection isn’t a reflection. It is simply rejection - That’s it, nothing more, nothing less. And for the most part, later on, rejection has always meant protection, whether it be dodging a bullet by way of a guy that isn’t for me, a job that I won’t thrive in, spaces that are not aligned with my values and so much for.
So does this mean I’ll go forth and throw open my heart to the wind, professing my interest in every guy I think is a lil cutie pie? Absolutely not - Once bitten twice shy my friends! But what I did gain from the experience is that rejection truly isn't the be all and end all, and it certainly isn't a reflection of who I am, and it shouldn't be a reflection of how I see myself and in fact carry myself. I am fearfully and wonderfully made - No worldly validation needed, and you are too my friends. Please never forget that.  

{ P.S. Photos by ShotsbyFifi }