$pent Millennial

Dear Reader,

That one’s not for you.

That was the message I kept bumping into this past week.

I wouldn’t typically consider myself a greedy person, but I found myself slipping into that space. One day, feeling heavy with doubt and discouragement, I sent up a quick prayer: “I need a win today.”

I was hoping to open my inbox to grant notifications—good news, approvals, funding for proposals I’ve been working hard on. Instead, I received a rejection for an opportunity I really wanted.

Rejection always stings. And as someone who grew up on straight A’s and gold stars, I can quickly spiral into thoughts like: Maybe I’m not good at this. Maybe I’m not cut out for this work. Maybe I should’ve known better.

But here’s what I couldn’t see in that moment: it wasn’t a declaration of failure. It was simply, “That one’s not for you.”

I couldn’t hear that truth until the very next day—when another email came through letting us know we’d received a different grant, for the same amount and purpose as the one we lost. That’s when the message from the rejection became clear: That one wasn’t for you.

And to be transparent, even then, I wasn’t fully satisfied. I wanted both. That’s where the greed came in. Not greed in the selfish sense, but in that competitive part of me that wants every door to open, every opportunity to align. After all, this wasn’t even for me personally—it was funding to support hardworking educators and expand access for children and families. How could wanting that possibly be greedy?

Still, I had to sit with the reminder: not everything is meant to be mine, even the good things.

And this lesson has shown up in more than just work in the past few months.

Lately, my partner Jesse and I have been doing what I like to call “practice home shopping” while firmly staying in our “officially still renting” status. Some people warn against this kind of casual browsing—I get why. It’s easy to wander through an open house, picture yourself sipping coffee on the deck, and suddenly feel the tug to leap in. Realtors certainly don’t help when they push, “Are you pre-approved? This won’t last long!”

I’d be lying if I said that doesn’t get to me. More than once I’ve walked out of an open house thinking, We need to act now. I don’t want to miss this.

What has saved us is the pause.

The pause to dream together—about our dog enjoying the yard, about holiday baking in the kitchen, about the life we want to build. And then, the pause to ask the grounding question: Do we want to run the numbers?

Then, when we do run the numbers, the answer is consistent: not yet. And while that can be discouraging, it’s also strangely comforting. Because “not yet” is not the same as “not ever.”

That distinction matters. Because the numbers not only show us that we are not there yet, they also direct us to when and how we can get to a time when the answer could be yes, now. 

I deeply believe this: if something is meant for me—and I’m doing the work within my control—it cannot miss me. That belief has kept us from thrwoing away all logic from our numbers and rushing with our emotions into a home we couldn’t afford, and it steadies me when opportunities pass by.

Because sometimes the clearest answer is simply: *that one’s not for you.*

There’s a song I love that repeats the phrase, “Your way’s better.” Whatever your belief system, that resonates. Sometimes we just need to breathe through the sting of disappointment, feel the grief of what didn’t work out, and trust that something aligned and sustaining is on its way.

So, whatever you’re grieving this weekend—a job you didn’t get, a home that slipped away, a grant rejection letter—let yourself feel it. But also remember: it’s not that you failed. It’s that this one wasn’t meant for you.

Thank you for holding this space with me.

Until next week—take care,

Everett