On rejection, hiding, and finding my way back to myself .
Last October, I visited a publishing company, armed with the only file I have of my recipes and a short story about my “why.”
I received a warm welcome from the lady at the front desk. I had called earlier to say I was in town and would love to meet with her. She didn’t have time, which I completely understand. And that’s why I found myself standing at the front desk, in front of the lovely, warm receptionist, dropping off my file—not sitting across a desk from the person I truly wanted to meet.
More importantly, I wanted her to meet me. If only she could feel my energy, see the life and excitement in my soul, I know she would understand my passion.
It’s hard to make an impression over the phone. I was nervous—I fumbled my words. I was overwhelmed, emotional, anxious. I had so much expectation riding on that call. I messed it up.
But I kept telling myself to move forward. To keep going.
Not to give up.
It’s easier to hide when we make mistakes.
“Not this time, Jacque,” I said. “You can do this. You won’t know until you put yourself out there and at least try.”
What does failure look like to me? I had asked myself that before.
Not writing my cookbook.
And so here I was, dropping off my file. Making myself vulnerable.
“Leave it at the front desk.”
It felt like leaving your child in the care of a stranger and trusting they’ll be okay. I did it anyway, then walked away with my heart pounding, desperate to escape the nervous energy of it all.
“You did it, Mom!” Sarah said proudly as she hugged me when I got back into the car, where she and Brian were waiting.
I cried.
It was relief.
It was anticipation.
It was the weight of their expectation and my own.
A week later, I received an email.
Dear Jacqueline
Thank you for sending us your proposal.
I have spent some time looking at it. Unfortunately, we will not be able to publish it. Being a small publisher, our resources are limited, and we can only take on a certain number of books each year.
Should you wish to finance the book yourself, we would be happy to provide a quote.
Alternatively, I would suggest you finish your manuscript and try one of the bigger publishers, such as Penguin or Jonathan Ball.
One last question—how large is your existing subscriber base?
I’m sorry we can’t help.
I have left your manuscript with [name] at the front desk for collection.
Best wishes,[Name]
I was gutted.
Seeing the word “unfortunately” stopped me from reading further. It stopped me from taking in the whole message.
I saw a stop sign, not a yield sign.
A brick wall, not a speed bump.
“It’s okay,” I told Sarah and Brian, trying to be brave—trying not to show my disappointment. But more than that, I was shielding myself from theirs.
I’ve been down this road before.
When expectations sit sky-high, the crash can be brutal.
So I did what I know how to do. I protected myself. I pretended I was fine.
Licking one’s wounds isn’t pleasant, but we do it to soothe the broken pieces. To put them back together—bruised, but healing.
Distraction helps too. It gives you somewhere to hide.
I spent the rest of 2025 doing exactly that.
Hiding.
Hiding from showing up in my Fresh Kitchen.
Looking back, I can see it clearly. I wasn’t present. The life, the joy, the spark—it had dimmed. The flame was barely flickering.
So I threw myself into my garden, making it beautiful for the Daily Dispatch article before Christmas.
Hey you! Who, me? Yes, you. Enough! No more of that little voice. You know exactly what you’re doing. So get on with it.”
Sir Anthony Hopkins
I organised an entire week of family activities—military precision, times, places, instructions.
I hid behind being busy.
I didn’t tell a soul about the rejection. Only Sarah, Darryn, and Brian knew.
Then the new year came.
And I gave myself a well-deserved kick up the backside.
I am an action-oriented person.
I get things done.
So why was this passion project stopping me in my tracks?
I looked at the ugly monster of failure.
It was huge.
Looming.
And then I realised—
what I was seeing wasn’t the monster.
It was its shadow,
cast large against the wall, while I stood small in the foreground.
I wasn’t afraid of failure.
I was afraid of its shadow.
And that shadow wasn’t real.
By not showing up, I was protecting myself—but also proving my own fear right.
A self-fulfilling loop.
So I asked myself: how have I succeeded before?
The answer was simple.
Almost stupidly simple.
I never thought about failing. I only considered success.
Failure wasn’t in my vocabulary.
Not in those moments.
I trusted myself.
I stand on a mountain of successes I am proud of.
But this isn’t about those successes—it’s about how I got there. And whether I can do it again for my legacy project.
Abso-bloody-lutely.
When the task feels overwhelming, I break it down into small, daily steps. One thing at a time. One step closer.
And so, 2026 began with me showing up at my desk every day, working on my Fresh Kitchen manuscript.
Structure. Focus. Fewer distractions.
Life still happens—but every day, I begin with success in mind. I build on yesterday’s progress to fuel today’s.
I belong here. In my life.
I am the leading lady in this epic film that is my life.
No longer the supporting character in everyone else’s story.
I recently finished Sir Anthony Hopkins’ memoir, We Did Okay, Kid.
One line stayed with me:
“Hey you! Who, me? Yes, you. Enough! No more of that little voice. You know exactly what you’re doing. So get on with it.”
And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I’m here. Living my good life.
Playing the leading lady—
with gusto.
For now, what you see might look like intermission.
Go grab some popcorn. Take a break while I change the reels.
I’ll be back. I promise.
When I’m ready.
All my love,
From my heart to all of you who care enough to read these