In Retrograde, Apparently
The First Why
It’s Mercury retrograde, apparently.
Someone mentioned it in passing, like a joke, but it stayed with me longer than it should have. Like maybe the universe needed an alibi for this unshakable heaviness. Maybe I needed an excuse. Because the truth is, I’m rattled. And I don’t like admitting that—not when I’ve built a life around holding it together.
Why am I spiralling over one rejection?
It was a “no” from a PR agency. One I hadn’t even fully hired yet. A week ago, I asked for a call to talk through the proposal—just a conversation to align—and they replied saying they no longer had capacity to take us on. Just like that. After being introduced by someone with serious weight in the industry. After I let myself get hopeful. After I pictured momentum.
I know what you’re thinking. It’s business. These things happen.
And they do. But I’m not upset about the agency. I’m upset about what their “no” unlocked in me.
Why does this feel so much bigger?
Because I’ve gone all in. We both have. My husband and I are self-funding this business, reshaping our lives around it. There is no fallback. There is no plan B that doesn’t require a part of me to shatter. I’m not just building a brand. I’m building a life raft. And suddenly a polite brush-off feels like a signal that maybe I’ve misread the stars entirely.
Because I’m afraid. That I’ll fail. That we’ll fail. That we’ll lose more than money. That I’ll be forced back into rooms I fought so hard to leave—corporate rooms filled with people who mistake volume for competence and reward titles over substance.
Because I don’t want to be a token anymore. I don’t want to be the “fiery” woman with “Mediterranean temperament” who’s really just pointing out the thing no one else has the spine to name. I don’t want to dilute who I am just to survive someone else's hierarchy.
Why does starting again feel like betrayal?
Because I already fought this fight. I already climbed the ladder. I already sat at the executive table, with my polished voice and my invisible bruises from the times I’d been dismissed, overwritten, side-eyed, told to smile. I did that. I made it. And it broke me.
So to start again now, in a new industry, with no safety net—it’s not just humbling, it’s terrifying. Because if this doesn’t work, then what? I go back to being “employable”? Back to pretending I don’t see what’s wrong in the system because I need to keep the paycheck?
I can’t.
And that’s what makes this feel so precarious. Because I’ve made this choice with the same fire that used to get me labelled. And I know what that fire costs.
Why do I still doubt myself, even with the evidence?
Because even when I know I’m not a novice, even when my track record says otherwise, all it takes is one moment—one rejection, one offhand comment—for the imposter to crack through the surface. And suddenly I’m spiralling. Suddenly I’m asking if I’ve made a mistake. If I should shrink. If I’m allowed to feel rattled at all.
Because I’m not just fighting for success. I’m fighting for the right to define it on my own terms.
The Fifth Why
Maybe it’s not Mercury.
Maybe this is just what happens when you bet on yourself without a parachute. Maybe the panic is part of the becoming. Maybe the storm isn’t proof you’ve failed—but proof you’ve left the shore.
So no, I won’t romanticise this. I won’t tell you I feel calm or certain or invincible.
But I’m still here.
And maybe that’s enough for today.
