A Year Apart

A reflective account of navigating DClinPsy rejection, exploring resilience, non-linear progress, and the courage to build multiple meaningful futures.

There’s a particular kind of ache that comes from wanting something for so long. Not the sharp sting of a single disappointment, but the quieter, deeper heaviness that settles in when you’ve hoped before - when you’ve stood in the same place, heart open, waiting for news that could tilt your world in one direction or another.

Last year, I got the interview. I remember the moment the email arrived - the rush of disbelief, the way my chest lifted, the way everything suddenly felt possible. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was validation. Proof that the work I’d poured in meant something. Proof that someone, somewhere, saw potential in me.

And I carried that feeling with me for months. Even after the process ended, even after I didn’t get a place, that interview became a kind of anchor. A reminder that I was close. That I was capable. That I was, in some small but important way, on the right track.

So, when I applied again this year, I thought I knew what to expect. Not the outcome - that’s never guaranteed - but the emotional terrain. The hope, the waiting, the uncertainty. I thought I’d built enough resilience to weather whatever came.

But I didn’t expect this: not getting an interview at all.

It landed differently. Heavier. Sharper. Like the ground shifted beneath a place I thought was steady.

Last year’s interview had planted something in me - a quiet belief that I was moving forward, even if slowly. So, when the “no” came this time, it wasn’t just disappointment. It was disorientation. A sense of slipping backwards. A sense of how can I be further away now than I was before?

And that’s a hard feeling to sit with.

The Weight of Comparison

I know, logically, that the DClinPsy process isn’t linear. I know it’s not a ladder, not a sequence of predictable steps. I even wrote something similar once: “People talk about the DClinPsy application process like it’s a ladder… but it’s not a ladder. It’s a landscape.” And I meant it. I still do.

But knowing something and feeling it are two very different things.

This year the landscape felt harsher. Less forgiving. Like I’d taken a familiar path only to find the terrain had changed beneath my feet. And there’s a particular vulnerability in realising that last year’s progress doesn’t guarantee this year’s outcome.

It made me question things I thought I’d settled. My readiness. My capability. My direction. Myself.

And yet - beneath the doubt, beneath the sting - something else has been taking shape. Something steadier. Something I didn’t have last year.

The Quiet Work Still Counts

The truth is, I’m not the same person who applied last year. I’ve grown in ways that aren’t always visible on an application form. I’ve stretched myself, challenged myself, learned to hold more complexity with more steadiness. I’ve become braver in the small, unglamorous ways that matter, the ways no panel ever sees.

Perhaps that’s what makes this year’s outcome so hard. Because it’s not just a “no” to an application. It feels like a “no” to all the invisible work. The late nights. The emotional labour. The quiet courage of believing in a future version of myself that no one else can see yet.

But here’s the part I keep coming back to: the work still happened. The growth still happened. The becoming still happened.

A panel’s decision doesn’t erase that.

Sitting With the Disappointment

There’s no tidy way to package this feeling. No reflective model that makes it neat. It’s messy. It’s human. It’s the cost of caring deeply.

And honestly, it hurts.

For a while after the rejection, I couldn’t even look at anything to do with clinical psychology. The thought of it made my stomach twist, not because I’d stopped wanting it, but because the wanting suddenly felt raw. It was like my mind needed distance from the very thing my heart was still reaching for. Even opening an email, seeing a post, or hearing someone mention the DClin brought up a wave of heaviness I wasn’t ready to sit with.

But the hurt tells me something important: that I still want this. That the dream is still alive. That the part of me who stepped into last year’s interview, hopeful, nervous, determined, is still here, still trying, still believing.

Last year’s interview wasn’t a fluke. It was a moment in a much bigger journey. A journey that doesn’t move in straight lines.

And maybe this year’s “no” isn’t a step backwards. Maybe it’s just a different part of the landscape, one that asks for patience, resilience, and a kind of faith that doesn’t rely on external confirmation.

What This Year Taught Me

If last year taught me that I was capable, this year taught me that I am resilient.

If last year showed me possibility, this year showed me perseverance.

If last year gave me hope, this year asked me to hold it without proof - and that is its own kind of strength.

I’m learning that the journey isn’t just about the milestones. It’s about who I become in the spaces between them. It’s about the courage to keep wanting something, even when wanting it hurts. It’s about the quiet, steady belief that my path is still unfolding, even when the direction isn’t clear.

And I’m proud of that. Quietly, steadily proud - the same way I once wrote: “I’m proud that when the pressure hit, I didn’t disappear into myself.” That truth still stands, even now.

Looking Ahead

I don’t know what next year will bring. I don’t know what opportunities will open or close, or which version of me will be standing at the crossroads when the next decision arrives. But I do know this: I’m not done. Not because I’m stubborn, and not because I can’t let go, but because this work matters to me in a way that feels woven into who I am.

Still, something has shifted in me this year. Not in my desire for the DClinPsy, that remains as steady and fierce as ever, but in the way I’m thinking about my future. I’ve realised that ambition doesn’t have to be singular. It doesn’t have to cling to one outcome as if everything depends on it. I can want the DClinPsy with my whole heart and still build something meaningful alongside it. Those two truths don’t cancel each other out; they strengthen each other.

I’m a team leader now, and that role has opened a different kind of door - one I didn’t always see myself walking through, but one that’s teaching me more than I expected. Leadership has stretched me in ways that feel important: learning to hold responsibility, to guide others, to make decisions that ripple beyond myself. And there’s a part of me that’s curious about where that path could lead. Management isn’t a consolation prize. It’s a direction with its own challenges, its own rewards, its own opportunities to grow into someone I’m proud of.

Maybe that’s the part I’m finally allowing myself to admit: I want success in more than one form. I want to keep bettering myself, not because I’m chasing titles, but because I know I’m capable of more, and I’m not willing to shrink just because one door didn’t open this year.

I’m at a point in my life where putting all my eggs in one basket doesn’t feel wise anymore, and honestly, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. There’s a kind of wisdom in diversifying your hope. A kind of strength in saying, “I want this deeply, but I’m also building something solid beneath my feet.” Pursuing a backup doesn’t mean I’m giving up. It means I’m investing in myself from more than one angle. It means I’m refusing to let one outcome define the whole shape of my future.

The DClinPsy is still the dream, the one that tugs at me, the one that feels like home even from a distance. But the backup isn’t a shadow. It’s a foundation. It’s a path I can walk with purpose, with pride, with the same determination I bring to everything else. And if the DClinPsy comes later, I’ll meet it as someone who has grown even more, someone who has led, learned, and strengthened herself in ways that only enrich the clinician I hope to become.

So, I’m letting myself feel the sting of this year. I’m letting myself grieve the interview that didn’t come. But I’m also letting myself believe  -gently, cautiously, but genuinely- that this isn’t the end of the story. It’s just another chapter. One that might lead somewhere unexpected, somewhere valuable, somewhere that still aligns with the person I’m becoming.

Because wanting something this deeply, even after disappointment, is not a weakness. It’s a testament to hope. To purpose. To resilience. And to the quiet, steady belief that I can build more than one future at once, and thrive in whichever one unfolds first.