Rejection Proof: How I Beat Fear and Became Invincible Through 100 Days of Rejection (3 page)

Almost the whole day went by without me making a single move. Starting wasn’t easy, both because rejection was something I dreaded and because I didn’t have a clear idea of what I should be trying to get. Then, as I was walking through the lobby of my office building that evening, I noticed the security guard sitting at his desk. An idea popped into my head. What would happen if I tried to borrow $100 from him? As soon as I asked myself the question, I could feel all the hair on the back of my neck standing up. It seemed a certainty that the security guard would say no—and, in fact, that was the whole point. But
how
would he say no? Would he cuss me
out? Laugh at me? Whip out his nightstick and start clubbing me? Would he think I was a nutcase and call the nearest mental hospital asking if any six-foot-tall Asian male patient had gone missing—all while holding me in a headlock? And wait a second—did this guy have a gun or a Taser?

All these questions stormed into my mind, getting crazier and darker by the second. So before I could scare myself to death, I decided to just ask the damn question and see what happened. I pulled out my phone, hit the video recording button, and aimed the camera at myself. “All right, this is my first try. I’m going to try to borrow $100 from a stranger. Ah…this is really tough, but let’s give it a shot.”

With my phone held up and recording, I started walking toward the security guard, who was reading a newspaper.

“Excuse me,” I said, my heart pounding like I’d just downed five cups of coffee.

He glanced up, and before he could say anything at all, I rushed in with my question. “Do you think I can borrow $100 from you?”

He frowned. “No. Why?”

“No? All right. No? OK, thanks!” I said, fumbling my words. I felt a rush of white noise in my ears. Then I left as fast as I could, feeling like some sort of small animal running away from a predator that was still deciding whether to chase me or let me go.

I went to a corner of the building and sat down to calm myself. Some people would probably wonder what the big deal was. But for me, being rejected for money felt like an epic blend of failure and shame. I’d come to America as an immigrant, been educated at good schools, and worked
for good companies. I was proud of the social status I had earned over the years. Asking a stranger for money was hard enough; getting turned down was almost too much for me, even as a made-up rejection attempt.

Man, this stinks
, I said to myself. I hoped my father didn’t watch the video—or worse, my uncle. I wouldn’t want them to see me even pretending to panhandle. But this was rejection therapy, after all, and therapy is supposed to be painful. I left the building and hoped that I could cope better the next time.

That night, as I was editing the video before uploading it to YouTube and to my video blog, I got a whole new perspective on the experience. I could see in the video how terrified I was. When I was talking to the camera before my request, I looked like the guy in Edvard Munch’s painting
The Scream
, only with a forced smile and some hair on my head. If I was that scared, I wonder what the security guard saw and how he felt.

Then I watched the next part, where I asked the question and the security guard answered. He’d said “No,” but then he’d asked “Why?”—giving me a chance to explain myself. I’d been so frazzled by posing the question that I hadn’t really heard his full response. Maybe he was intrigued by my bizarre request. Maybe he saw how scared I looked and thought I was in some sort of trouble. In any case, he was offering to extend the conversation. I could have said, in all honesty, “I’m trying to overcome my fear of rejection, so I am forcing myself to make absurd requests.” Or “I’m trying to see if I can make something impossible happen. If you
could trust me and lend me $100, I will give it back to you right away. I work upstairs. Here is my driver’s license if that helps.” I could have said so many things to at least make myself look reasonable and put him at ease.

But what did I say? “No? All right. No? OK, thanks!” All I wanted was to get out of there as soon as I could. Watching the conversation replayed on video in front of me, all I could think was:
What a wasted opportunity
. Fear had turned me into a mumbling idiot.

As I thought about what I was going to post, I also had to wonder: Why had I been so scared? The security guard didn’t look menacing or intimidating at all—and definitely not like someone who would pummel me with a nightstick for asking a question. But I’d approached him as if he were a starving tiger. My goal had been to get a rejection, and I got what I wanted. So why was it still such a frightening moment?

I didn’t have the answers. But I did know that my fear had a negative impact on the result. I decided to go into the next day’s rejection attempt with a different approach. This time, I wanted to show a little confidence and composure during my encounter and see if I got the same outcome. I wanted to be able to sustain a conversation and explain myself. I even wanted to inject a little humor into my request—if that was at all possible.

It was lunchtime the next day. I was starving, so I went to Five Guys Burgers and Fries and ordered a big, juicy bacon
cheeseburger. After gobbling the burger in just a few bites, my taste buds were begging me to order another one. I’d purchased a soda with my burger, and when I was filling my cup, I’d noticed a sign on the soda machine that said
FREE REFILL
. Suddenly, I had an idea for another rejection attempt. This time, I didn’t give myself a chance to overthink the request and psych myself out. I whipped out my iPhone, hit record, and approached the cashier.

“What can I do for you?” the cashier asked.

I straightened my stance, poked my chest out a little, and made direct eye contact. “Your burger is really good. Can I get a burger refill?”

“Ah, ah, ah…what?” The cashier stuttered a little, trying to confirm what he thought he’d just heard. So I repeated my request.

“A burger refill? What do you mean?” he said, looking completely perplexed.

“Like, a free refill. Do you have free refills for burgers?” I tried to sound matter-of-fact and breezy, like I was asking a totally reasonable question.

The cashier said no. But instead of walking away this time, I asked a follow-up question—while trying not to laugh at the absurdity of what I was asking. “How come you have it for drinks but not for burgers?”

“That’s the way it is, man,” the cashier said, this time with a chuckle.

I told him I’d like the place even more if they offered a burger refill, then smiled and left.

That night, while readying the video for upload, I analyzed the conversation. I saw how my behavior had changed
this time. I still looked a bit nervous, but that life-and-death panic hadn’t kicked in. Neither had the wave of shame I’d experienced the day before in the lobby. Most important, I’d even had a little fun. And when I got the rejection, I was able to carry on a conversation without fleeing the scene. I even got a smile out of the cashier.

Two days into my rejection journey, I had already learned my first big lesson: the way you ask a question—and how you follow through in the conversation—has an impact on the result you get. It might not change the outcome, but it can take a lot of the sting out of hearing no. Projecting confidence and staying calm—rather than cowering—had created a totally different experience. If I could build up that sort of confidence in my professional life, rejection might not have such a devastating impact on my trajectory. It also might not hurt so much.

It had been only two days, and I was already feeling a little bit tougher. And now that my panic was subsiding, my creativity had started flowing again. I felt more like myself and a little bit less afraid of hearing the word
no
.

The next morning, I was stuck in traffic and thinking about how to get rejected that day when I spotted a Krispy Kreme shop on the side of the road. This was the same year as the 2012 London Olympics, and the Games were on my mind. So I came up with an outlandish rejection idea to try out in the donut shop on my way home that evening. I would ask them to make me five donuts, interlinked in the shape of the
Olympic rings. They’d say no, and I’d buy a box of donuts and head home, winning a rejection and a sweet treat in the process.

I left work a little early and drove to the Krispy Kreme. I was strangely looking forward to being rejected this time, maybe because there was a promise of donuts on the other end. I started recording myself while I was driving, to set up the “episode” for my video blog. When I got to the donut shop, it was bustling with customers. Standing in line, I practiced a few preplanned jokes in my head and coached myself to be calm, confident, and respectful. On the video, I can hear myself whispering,
“Everything will be OK.”
I tried to visualize myself as a Chinese version of Bill Clinton, the most charismatic guy I could think of, hoping it would boost my confidence.

Finally, it was my turn. The cashier—who turned out to be the shift leader—looked to be in her forties. She had blond hair pulled into a ponytail under a Krispy Kreme baseball cap.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

I flashed what I hoped was a Clinton-like presidential smile. Then I asked my question: “Can you make me some specialized donuts?”

“What kind of specialized donuts are you talking about?”

“Ah, I’d like to have a…” I stumbled for a second, looked downward, then glanced up at the menu on the wall, as if there were an actual item called “Olympic Donuts.”

I took a breath, forced myself to reestablish eye contact, and dove in. “Can you link the five donuts together and make them look like the Olympic symbol?”

She cocked her head and put her hand underneath her chin and let out a surprised “Oh!”

And that’s when things got interesting.

“When are you looking for these?” she asked after a couple of seconds.

“Huh?” I muttered, as if I didn’t understand her reply. Her question caught me completely off guard.

“When?” she repeated.

I paused for a second. I had counted on her saying no, so that I could then tell her why I was asking, deliver my jokes, and go home. But she had asked me “when” as if she were going to take me seriously.

“In the next…fifteen minutes?” I said, hoping the tight time frame would push her toward a quick no.

She looked away, still with her hand under her chin, and started thinking.

Then she pulled out paper and a pen. In the next few minutes, we went back and forth on what the donuts would look like. She started jotting down notes and drawing the rings on a piece of paper. She thought out loud about how she could make these donuts with Krispy Kreme’s donut proofer and fryer.

Then, with the look of an Olympic athlete determined to win gold, she looked at me and said, “Let me see what I can do.” Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

I found a seat and waited for my order.
Is this really happening?
I kept asking myself. I had come here to make a ridiculous request and get a no. Now here I was, dumbfounded by her equally ridiculous yes.

My phone rang. It was Tracy, asking me when I would be
home. Dinner was ready. “You’ll have to wait for a few more minutes,” I told her. “Remember my 100 Days of Rejection?”

“Yeah…” she said slowly, clearly wondering what sort of trouble I’d landed in.

“Something amazing is happening,” I said. “I will explain it to you when I get home. Trust me, it’s worth the wait.”

A few minutes later, the woman strode out from the kitchen with a donut box in her hands. Inside were five interlinked donuts, each “ring” of donut iced in its appropriate color. There was no mistaking what they looked like: the Olympic rings.

“Wow!” I said. “That is really good. Really good!” It was then that I noticed her name tag, which read “Jackie.” I later found out that her full name is Jackie Braun, and she’s from New York.

“Jackie,” I said. “I’m a fan!”

She told me I was too kind, then flashed a huge smile, the type you see only on someone who’s made another person happy.

I was willing to pay whatever she asked for the donuts and began to pull out my wallet. But then Jackie surprised me again. “Don’t even worry about it. This one is on me.”

I couldn’t believe it. I asked her twice if she was serious. She was.

I didn’t know how to thank her. I went to shake her hand, but somehow my gesture turned into a full-blown hug.

On the drive home, I kept looking over at the box of donuts sitting on the passenger seat. It wasn’t every day I experienced—or even heard of—the kind of awesome customer service and human kindness that Jackie had demonstrated.
I’d heard plenty of news stories about fighting, theft, corporate greed, and low food quality at fast-food restaurants. But fast-food managers willing to fill an absurd specialty order in under fifteen minutes? Now that was remarkable!

Even more remarkable: my rejection attempt had been rejected. I hadn’t needed to pull out my jokes, explain myself, or channel Bill Clinton—I didn’t have to do anything but muster the courage to ask the question to get a yes. Jackie and I had collaborated to turn my crazy idea into reality, and we’d had a lot of fun stepping outside the box of our otherwise average days. If I hadn’t asked the question, I would never have experienced this moment. The Olympic ring donuts would have never been made, and Jackie would never have had the opportunity to please a customer in an unexpected way. Driving home, I couldn’t help feeling that the world was actually much kinder, and its people much nicer, than I had realized.

I was brimming with excitement. I hadn’t felt this way since I was a child. It wasn’t the quick rush you get when playing a prank or the surge of adrenaline that follows a surprise victory. It was…possibilities. A sense that the world was filled with far more possibilities than I had imagined. If I could get custom-made Olympic donuts from Krispy Kreme without even trying, what else was possible if I just asked? A better question: What was possible if I really tried hard?

When I got home, I showed Tracy the video. She was as stunned as I had been and let out a big “Wow.” After eating dinner (which had long gone cold), we dove into our unexpected dessert: the Olympic donuts. The icing was very sweet—but the feeling they created was far sweeter.

After dinner, I uploaded the video to YouTube and my video blog, along with some comments expressing my thoughts about the encounter. I wanted to share the story with the world; I wanted to let people know about an amazing donut maker in Austin who took her job seriously and made my day, and I also wanted to show people what was possible with a little bit of bravery and creativity. I was hoping a few hundred viewers might see the video. And that maybe, after watching the video, they would trust others a little more and open up a little more. Maybe.

In the Bible, the story goes that Apostle Paul started as a tormentor of Christians, persecuting and killing many early followers of Jesus. On the road to Damascus, he had a personal encounter with Jesus and experienced one of the most dramatic and eventful conversions in the history of religion. Paul went on to become an influential Christian missionary. His work and writings literally altered human history, accelerating the spread of Christianity to the point that the Roman Empire adopted it as its dominant religion.

I am no Apostle Paul, and Jackie from Krispy Kreme is no Jesus. But my visit to Krispy Kreme felt like my own version on the road to Damascus. My entire worldview was altered, and I felt almost like a new person. My first and second rejection attempts had changed my perspective—but my third attempt had transformed my mind-set. Before Jackie, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that people might say yes to one of my requests. But as a result of that experience, my focus now shifted from getting a rejection and just coping
with the ensuing pain to having the courage to make big requests. I stopped caring so much whether I got a yes or a no. Which meant, I supposed, that I was starting to care a bit less about what other people thought about me. And it felt liberating.