The Ethics of Being Left Out

A reflection on how counselling institutions fail applicants through silence and lack of closure—and why it matters.

I’m not upset that I didn’t get in.

I’m upset that I didn’t matter enough to be told why.

There’s something deeply unsettling about the way counselling institutions—ironically, those tasked with training people in empathy and presence—can so easily fall into cold, dismissive systems of silence.

When you’re not accepted onto a course, it often comes with no real explanation. Just a generic message. Sometimes not even that. And then, when you ask for feedback, it’s either unavailable, delayed indefinitely, or simply not prioritized. As if your effort, your hope, your vulnerability in applying—it just evaporates the moment you’re not chosen.

The tutor who assessed me is now away on annual leave for nearly two months. That holiday was likely planned in advance—it’s not personal. But what is systemic is the fact that there seems to be no clear structure for applicants to receive meaningful feedback unless they’re accepted. No backup plan. No responsibility taken by the department. Just… wait, or move on.

And that’s the message, really:

“You didn’t get in, so we don’t owe you anything.”

But I don’t accept that.
Not as a professional standard.
Not as someone trying to grow.
Not as someone who still believes in the potential of this work.

Because silence is a message. And in this case, it says:

“Your effort no longer matters. You’re no longer part of the conversation.”

And that’s not just poor communication. It’s a failure of ethos.

We teach clients that their stories matter. That reflection leads to growth. That clarity creates safety.
But if we can’t model that in our institutions—if we can’t even offer a few lines of honest, specific feedback to someone who applied in good faith—then what are we actually teaching?

It’s not the rejection that hurts. It’s the absence of relationship.
It’s the message beneath the silence.

And we wonder why so many people feel like they’re not seen.

This isn’t just about me. It’s about how we treat people when they’re no longer useful to us.
And that’s where ethics really begin.