The Year I Didn’t Expect

I didn’t expect this.

I thought I’d be starting Level 4 in September. I thought the next year of my life was already shaped. Two days a week in college. A growing sense of purpose. More connections. More clarity.

But I didn’t get offered a place.
And I don’t really know why.

I did everything I could. I showed up, I tried, I grew. I sat with difficult feedback and took it seriously. I had an interview—I was tired that day, but still felt like I did enough. I even felt a connection with one of the interviewers. And now, I won’t be seeing any of them again.

There’s a lot to mourn.
It’s not just the course—it’s the imagined future. The community. The momentum. The identity.
I was someone training to be a counsellor. And now I’m… what, exactly?

There’s grief in that.
And confusion.

Maybe it’s my diagnosis. Maybe I seemed unstable to someone. Maybe I rubbed a tutor the wrong way. Maybe it had nothing to do with me at all. Not knowing makes it harder to process. I’ve worked hard to build an internal locus of control—but when people who hold power over your next step say “no,” it stirs something. It makes me question everything. My growth. My stability. My readiness.

And yet…

There’s this other voice, somewhere beneath the disappointment.
It’s quieter, but steady. It says:

Maybe this is the year you didn’t know you needed.

The year where you build a foundation that isn’t shaped around a course.
Where you play poker without the stress of deadlines.
Where you write because you want to, not because it’s part of your professional trajectory.
Where you walk into the world not as “a student,” but as a person. A dad. A man building something meaningful at his own pace.

And I wonder, too, if maybe this wasn’t a rejection at all, but a quiet form of care.

Maybe my tutors saw the depth of what I’ve lived through and recognised how much space that healing still deserves. I was real. I didn’t hide. I revealed deep shame and trauma, and I did it not for attention—but because I was ready to stop carrying it alone. But that level of honesty can be a lot—for a training group, for the tutors, and maybe even for me.

Maybe they felt a year of breathing, rebuilding, and rooting myself into life outside of education would give me more than Level 4 could right now.
And maybe they’re right.

I didn’t expect this year.
But maybe it’s mine.