As I write this article in July, I’ve already received three major rejection emails this year: one from a journal I deeply admire, another for a grant I spent months crafting, and another from a leadership role I had quietly hoped would be a turning point in my academic career. For the longest time, each rejection felt deeply personal; a quiet confirmation of my worst self-doubts. I would keep going back over feedback, searching for what I had missed, questioning not just the work but my place in academia itself. And yet, despite the weight of those noes, I found myself persevering, because each time, something in me still believed the work that I do mattered and that I mattered too.
These recurring moments of doubt didn’t disappear overnight. The doubt resurfaces every now and then. But over time, I began building practices that helped me not just bounce back, but navigate these setbacks with a little more grace. Resilience, for me, is often shaped by quiet routines, gentle reminders, and intentional choices. The strategies I share below aren’t quick fixes, but they’ve helped me find steadiness amid the uncertainty of academia. Perhaps they might offer something useful to you too, especially during the moments when it’s hardest to keep going.
Redefining failure: from personal deficit to process feedback
We are conditioned to treat success as public and failure as private. But what if we saw failure as a normal, necessary and even generative part of academic life? Rejections often come without context, leaving us to fill in the blanks. But over time, I’ve learned to shift the question from “Why me?” to “What now?”. This mindset shift from self-blame to curiosity helps me detach my worth from outcomes and instead focus on process. For example, after a grant rejection earlier this year, instead of spiralling into self-doubt, I reached out to a colleague for feedback, reread my proposal with fresh eyes and discovered ways to strengthen the narrative. That revised version still hasn’t been accepted, but it gave me new energy to work on another collaborative project.
One small but powerful shift I’ve made is to regularly reflect on what didn’t go as planned. I keep a private reflection journal where I jot down rejections and setbacks, followed by what I learned or how I responded. Over time, this practice has helped me notice which feedback helped me grow, which decisions I’m proud of despite the outcome, and how many moments of “no” quietly led to future opportunities. It is less about documenting failure and more about honouring persistence as part of the work.
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Persistence doesn’t mean isolation
There’s a common image in academia of the lone scholar powering through rejection in silence. But for me, resilience in academia doesn’t mean doing it all alone. It means knowing when and how to ask for help. It’s about finding strength in connection. After a paper I’d worked hard on was rejected, I hesitated to talk about it, not wanting to sound like I was complaining. But when I casually mentioned it to a colleague over lunch, he immediately shared his recent rejection. That conversation didn’t change the outcome, but it changed how I carried it. I felt understood.
Since then, I’ve learned that creating spaces where we can talk about failure without shame matters. Whether it’s checking in with peers or a casual group chat where we say, “this didn’t go as planned, but I’m still moving forward”, sharing our stumbles makes the pain feel less lonely and more human. Resilience grows when we stop pretending that we’re the only ones struggling.
Rest as resistance
I used to respond to rejection by overworking. I used to think that if I failed, I must not be doing enough, and then I added more to my plate. But I’ve since realised that rest isn’t a luxury – it’s a form of resistance in a system that equates productivity with value. Now after a setback, I take an intentional break. Even a walk, an offline day or a moment to tend to my plants makes a difference. It doesn’t erase the pain of rejection, but it reminds me that I exist beyond my work. This pause changes everything. Rather than providing a breakthrough idea, it makes me feel human again.
Similarly, I build rest into my calendar like any other important commitment. Sometimes, it’s a short walk between meetings. Sometimes it’s marking one weekend a month as “non-academic”. If anyone isn’t sure where to begin, we can start by asking: When do I feel most restored? Schedule time for that this week. We don’t have to earn it – we just have to honour it.
Make room for gentle ambition
For a long time, I believed resilience meant pushing harder or being unshakeable. But the more I burned out trying to prove my strength, the more I realised that I needed to be softer on myself. Gentle ambition helped me achieve that. It is honouring our aspirations without erasing our humanity. It is showing up for our work without abandoning ourselves in the process. It is knowing that not every season needs to be productive. Some are meant for rest, for healing or for simply staying still. Now, instead of asking “Am I doing enough?”, I ask “Am I doing what matters to me right now?” And that shift has brought more clarity than any checklist ever could. Getting to this point took conscious effort: journaling about what energises me, checking in weekly with how I feel about my work, and giving myself permission to choose quality over quantity. We don’t arrive here all at once. It’s a practice of noticing, realigning and trusting that slow growth is still growth.
Overall, in a field that doesn’t always reward slowness or softness, surviving and thriving requires intentional, everyday acts of care. We are allowed to mourn our “noes” and still believe in our next “yes”. Resilience isn’t a trait. It’s a practice. And sometimes, the most radical thing we can do is to keep going gently.
Bhawana Shrestha is a research fellow at the Learning Institute for Future Excellence in the Academy of Future Education, Xi’an Jiaotong-Liverpool University.
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