Today is Valentine’s Day, a day of ritualized affection, a public performance of love and connection. For some, it is a confirmation of what they already possess—a partner, a lover, a hand to hold. For others, it is a reminder of what remains just out of reach. The world does not stop for those who are alone; instead, it moves on, a parade of roses, chocolates, and candlelit dinners, indifferent to those left standing in the margins.
For me, today stirs the weight of rejection—both professional and personal. It reminds me of the times I have reached for something only to find my hands closing around emptiness. It resurrects the moment I was pulled aside by a principal after applying to be his vice principal. He was not there to encourage me, nor to discuss my qualifications, but to deliver a quiet, cutting truth: You will not be getting an interview. You shouldn’t apply for jobs unless you’ve been asked to.
The words were meant to guide me, but they revealed something much deeper—an unspoken rule I had unknowingly broken. Advancement, it seemed, was not earned through merit alone. One had to be chosen, summoned, deemed worthy before even being granted the chance to compete. I had not been chosen, and by applying, I had trespassed into a space where I was not welcome.
Since then, the pattern has repeated itself. I have applied, been overlooked, left out of interviews entirely. Younger, less experienced candidates have been selected. I have been told, more than once, that my ambition is misplaced, that my effort is wasted.
And so, I turn inward.
Epictetus instructs, “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.” This is the essence of Stoicism—the understanding that external events are beyond my control, but my response to them belongs entirely to me.
Rejection, then, is not an indictment of my worth but an indifferent event. A moment. A circumstance outside my grasp. My qualifications remain the same whether or not they are recognized. My abilities do not shrink simply because others fail to acknowledge them. Their failure to see my value is their limitation, not my deficiency.
Yet even as I train my mind to accept this truth, the ache remains—not only in my career but in the quieter, more intimate spaces of my life.
Beyond professional rejection lies another form of longing, more personal, more visceral—the absence not just of companionship, but of touch.
I have known the warmth of another’s hand in mine. I have walked beside someone, fingers intertwined, the silent language of touch bridging the space between us. I have felt the small comforts of affection—the brief press of a palm, the reassuring squeeze in a quiet moment.
But I have never been wanted.
Not in the way that desire ignites, unbidden and consuming. Not in the way that eyes linger, that breaths quicken, that touch transforms from comfort to need. No one has ever looked at me and ached. No one has ever traced the contours of my form with hunger in their eyes.
I have been cared for, yes. I have been appreciated, even loved. But I have not been craved. My body has never been the spark that set another’s pulse racing, never the answer to an unspoken longing.
It is a strange kind of absence—one that is not always felt in the light of day but creeps in through the cracks of solitude. It is knowing that while I have been held, I have never been grasped in a way that says, I want you. Not just your presence, not just your mind, but you—wholly, completely, without hesitation.
Perhaps this absence is best illustrated by Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare. The painting is a portrait of oppression—not of an external force, but of the mind. A woman lies sprawled in restless sleep, her body limp, her expression uneasy. Atop her chest perches an incubus, grotesque and menacing, pressing down upon her, rendering her powerless. In the shadows, the hollow eyes of a horse emerge, watching, silent and unrelenting.
The weight upon her chest is not just a creature—it is her own burden, the suffocating force of something she cannot escape. What is the nightmare, if not longing turned malignant?
The incubus can be read as rejection itself, settling heavily upon the soul. It is the embodiment of unfulfilled desire, of love unreturned, of hands never held. It is the thing that lingers in the quiet moments, that presses upon the heart when one least expects it.
But Stoicism reminds me: the nightmare is only as real as the power I give it.
Marcus Aurelius writes, "If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment."
The nightmare of rejection, the nightmare of longing—these things are not tangible. They have no substance beyond what I allow them. They sit upon my chest only if I remain still beneath their weight.
Seneca writes, “Fate leads the willing and drags along the reluctant.”
Would I wish my life to have been different? Perhaps. But wishing does not alter reality. The absence of physical intimacy is not a curse nor a punishment—it simply is. To resist it is to resist fate, to rage against the shape of my own existence.
And so I do not resist. I accept.
This does not mean I surrender to solitude, nor does it mean I relinquish desire. It means only that I cease to treat my life as if it is something broken. If I have never known the warmth of another’s hand in mine, that is part of my path. If rejection has been a frequent companion, so be it. If my worth has not been affirmed by institutions, relationships, or accolades, it is no less real.
Longing does not make me incomplete. It only makes me human.
The younger version of myself sought validation like a beggar seeking coins. I wanted awards to confirm my excellence. I wanted admiration to prove my significance. I wanted love to affirm that I was worthy of it.
But Stoicism teaches that these things were never mine to demand. If I hinge my worth on the recognition of others, I place my value in their hands. I surrender my peace to their judgment. And this is a foolish and dangerous trade.
The Stoics understood this well. “If you want to improve,” Epictetus warned, “be content to be thought foolish and stupid.” In other words, the wise do not seek the approval of the crowd. They seek only mastery over themselves.
And so, I turn inward.
I am kind to myself.
I show myself compassion.
I allow myself self-worth.
And in this, I have reclaimed something far more valuable than external validation: the ability to see myself as whole, regardless of who does or does not see it.
Marcus Aurelius reminds us, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.”
If my life were to end today, would I spend my final moments lamenting what I have not had? Or would I recognize that my life, as it is, is enough?
Rejection has not broken me.
Absence has not erased me.
Longing has not diminished me.
I am not lesser because doors have remained closed.
I am not incomplete because no one has reached for me in desire.
I am whole—not because I am wanted, but because I am.