Overcoming Rejection: From Rejection to Royalty
- Shakila Barry
- Feb 1
- 7 min read
—You are not what happened to you—you are what survived.
Overcoming rejection has been one of the most defining and refining journeys of my life. What once felt like a sentence became an invitation—to see my story through God’s eyes instead of my wounds.
“Curse of rejection, you can’t stay here.
Lies of fear, you’re not welcome here.
I’ve been too comfortable living with you…
Now the King has come to my rescue.”
You Must Break by Tasha Cobbs Leonard rose up in my spirit this morning, and I realized something quietly but clearly: I’ve met every one of those lyrics face to face.
Rejection, fear, anxiety, insecurity—they weren’t strangers to me. They had addresses.
They knew exactly how to find me.
When I look back at my childhood now, I don’t see chaos as much as I see pressure—something constantly leaning in, trying to dim the light that came naturally to me.
I remember being aware of myself too early. Watching how much space I took up.
Learning how to be smaller before I ever learned how to be safe. There were moments when I needed to be held, spoken to gently, reassured that I belonged—and instead, I learned how to sit with discomfort and dysfunction like it was normal.
At the time, I thought something was wrong with me. Now I can see that my worth was never the issue. The people around me gave from their capacity, not from an absence in me.
For a long time, that distinction escaped me.
It would be easy to list the ways rejection introduced itself early and stayed longer than invited, but I am not telling this story from the posture of a victim.
Overcoming Rejection Through a New Perspective
So instead, I ask God to help me look back through His eyes—not to relive what hurt, but to see what I survived.
There were seasons when I felt hit from every side, yet somehow I kept moving forward. When I trace those moments honestly, I can see it now: I wasn’t standing on my own strength. I was being steadied.
Growing up as an only child, the quiet became familiar. I learned how to entertain myself, I had to defend myself, and eventually learned how to self-soothe. But beneath that independence lived a longing—for protection, for someone to guide me, to say, “I’ve got you.”
So when friendships formed, I often gave them more weight than they were meant to carry.
I didn’t just want connection—I wanted covering. I chose relationships that superficially felt strong, confident, reassuring. I leaned on them for direction, affirmation, and safety, hoping they would fill a role that they were never assigned.
Eventually, those relationships collapsed under the weight of my expectations. Conversations ended. Distance grew. And I was left staring at another closed door, wondering why protection always seemed temporary.
It took time—and humility—to admit this part:
no one failed an unspoken contract they never agreed to. I was searching for God-sized security in human hands.
For a while after that realization, something hardened in me.
I started keeping mental records. I replayed situations long after they ended. I noticed how quickly sarcasm slipped into my tone, how easily I justified being cold and disrespectful. I told myself I was just being honest, just protecting myself—but if I’m truthful, I was guarding wounds I refused to release.
I didn’t call it bitterness then. I thought it was awareness.
But awareness that doesn’t lead to healing quietly turns into a cage.
I noticed it in small ways first. I walked into rooms already bracing myself. I answered questions defensively before anyone accused me. I explained myself when no explanation was required. Even joy felt temporary, like something I needed to enjoy quickly before it disappeared.
That’s when it became clear:
the people who hurt me weren’t even present anymore—yet they still had a say in how I showed up in the world.
I was living on defense.
This is what I now recognize as unconscious living—when your past speaks louder than your present, and your reactions are shaped by wounds you never paused long enough to tend.
You know the saying unforgiveness being like drinking poison and expecting the other person to suffer? Well, I didn’t recognize the taste of the poison at first. It sounded like frustration. It felt like exhaustion. It showed up as comparison, jealousy, and a constant sense of being behind.
I would look at other people’s lives and feel the ache of what seemed easier for them—support systems, financial stability, emotional safety.
Without realizing it, I was measuring my worth against what I lacked instead of what I had endured.
And I made decisions from that place.
Overcoming rejection didn’t happen all at once. It unfolded slowly, as I learned to release old narratives and allow God to redefine my identity. I began asking different questions. Instead of asking, “Why did this happen to me?” I started asking, “What kept me alive through it?”
When I revisited old memories, I noticed patterns I hadn’t seen before. Where I once felt abandoned, I could now trace moments of provision. Where I felt rejected, I could see how easily pain repeats itself when it goes unhealed. Where others failed me, I began to recognize how deeply unavailable they were themselves.
That’s when the story changed.
I stopped naming only what was taken from me and started naming what survived.
My resilience. My discernment. My compassion. My faith.
I realized that freedom wasn’t waiting for an apology or an explanation. It was waiting for release.
So I began letting go—slowly, imperfectly, and honestly. I stopped rehearsing old conversations and past hurts in my head. I stopped using pain as proof of identity and wearing it like a badge of honor. I made room for God to occupy spaces I had been guarding with resentment.
And in that space, something settled.
Peace didn’t arrive loudly. It came gently. It showed up as rest. As clarity. As the ability to look back without flinching.
When Scripture says we are made new, I understand it differently now. New doesn’t mean forgetting—it means no longer being governed by what once had power.
The old patterns lost their authority. The old labels stopped fitting. The narrative shifted from survival to inheritance.
The King didn’t just rescue me—He claimed me.
And when I look over my life now, I don’t see a victim. I see evidence. I see a story that tried to break me and failed.
I am not what happened to me.
I am what remained.
I am victorious—not because the road was easy, but because I was never walking it alone.
Won't He do it?! 🙏🏽
Scripture to Stand On 🤍
These verses anchor the truth revealed throughout this story. Let me remind you of who you are becoming.
Isaiah 54:17 — “No weapon formed against you shall prosper.”
What came against you had intention, but it did not have authority.
Romans 8:37 — “In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.” Not merely surviving, but overcoming.
Psalm 27:10 — “Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me.” God fills the spaces others could not.
2 Corinthians 12:9 — “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” Your weakness did not disqualify you—it became the meeting place.
2 Corinthians 5:17 — “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.”
The old story no longer governs the new life.
Romans 8:17 — “Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ.” You are not forgotten. You are royalty.
Let’s Pray About It 🙏🏽
Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank You for Your presence that has never left us and Your Spirit that continues to guide us. Because of You, we can look back over our lives and clearly see that we survived everything that tried to take our light.
When we grow weary, remind us that Your strength is made perfect in our weakness. Help us to release hurt, resentment, rejection, and every thought that keeps us bound to a past You have already redeemed.
Teach us to focus on the lessons, the blessings, and the miracles You are still forming all around us. Because of You, we are whole. Because of You, we are capable. Because of You, we are heirs.
Thank You for calling us Yours and reminding us that we are royalty—made in Your image and held in Your care.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
A Note from My Heart to Yours ✨
Sparkle Bestie,
I say this with so much love: let it go. It is not worth your joy or your sanity to keep carrying the weight of what no longer belongs to you.
Let God be all that you need. Let His love wash over old wounds. Let joy return to places that have been guarded for too long.
It doesn’t matter how it started—you get to change the narrative.
You don’t need perfect affirmations or flawless faith. Just remember this: every thought you think is creative. Be conscious of what you allow to live in your mind, because you are building a new and beautiful life.
Fill your thoughts with beauty. Give yourself grace. You have overcome more than you realize.
All soldiers have battle scars, but we no longer have to bleed. When wounds are left open, they can infect our future. Don’t allow yesterday to poison what God has prepared ahead of you.
Your future is bright. Your past does not disqualify you.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made—in the image and likeness of the Creator.
You are ROYALTY.
Because our Father said so. Take your crown, love.
Sending you so much love and light,
Shakila B. ✨
P.S. Put this song on repeat, Sparkle Bestie.
You Must Break by Tasha Cobbs Leonard
*Some images in this post were created with the assistance of AI as a visual extension of the written message.
✨ Become an Official Sparkle Bestie
Be the first to receive new blog posts, come along on my creative adventures, and stay in the know about future product updates—delivered straight to you.
💖 Stay Connected @thesparklecompanychicago
Follow along for behind-the-scenes moments, reflections, and everyday sparkle.
Instagram
Pinterest
Facebook
Youtube
💌 Send Sparkle Mail
Your notes, reflections, and hellos are always welcome.
📧 Email: info@thesparklecompanychicago.com 💌 Mail: PO Box 6071Broadview, IL 60155
Thank you for being here—your presence, reflections, and feedback help shape this space in meaningful ways.
Made with intention, reflection, and a little sparkle ✨
Comments