When Your Heroes Can't See Your Purpose (A Story About Rejection and Clarity)

I spent four days in a hyperfocus fugue state writing a 150-page guide for burned-out dentists.

Four. Days.

Barely slept. Forgot to eat. My dog had to bark at me to go outside. Classic ADHD creation mode - where time stops existing and nothing matters except getting the thing out of your head and onto paper.

When I finally emerged, I had "The Burned-Out Dentist's Guide to Full-Life Rehab." Every story I'd been too scared to tell. Every boundary script I'd learned the hard way. Every dark moment that led to closing my practice.

Including the part about googling "dental malpractice insurance suicide clause" at 2 AM while playing Candy Crush level 3,847.

I was so fucking proud of it.

Not just proud - I felt like I'd finally done something that MATTERED. Like all that pain had been transformed into something that could save someone else from googling what I googled.

So I sent it to my mentors. The people I respect most in dental coaching. The ones whose approval still matters even though I'm 40-something years old and supposedly past needing gold stars.

The response came back like this:

"We don't view burnout as an identity to adopt, but rather as an invitation—a call to step into a bigger vision, deeper alignment, and stronger leadership... As I was reading through one of the documents, I realized I couldn't relate—and any thoughts I shared would be disingenuous."

I. Couldn't. Relate.

Those three words hit like a physical blow.

My mentor - someone I deeply admire, who has been by my side through some of the most monumental moments of my life, the decision to go to rehab, divorce, custody battles, COVID, not to mention all the dentist stuff - couldn't relate to my burnout. The work I'd poured my soul into. The guide I thought would help thousands.

My first thought: I suck. What the fuck am I doing? Who am I kidding thinking I have anything valuable to say? Of course she can't relate - I'm just a broken mess of a dentist who couldn't even keep her practice open. Why did I think my disaster of a life could help anyone?

My second thought: The guide must be shit.

My third thought: I should scrap everything and become an "ADHD dental advocate" instead. Abandon burnout completely. Something cleaner. More acceptable. Less... honest about wanting to die.

I spiraled for 24 hours. Full ADHD rejection sensitivity dysphoria mode. Considered deleting the guide. Thought about pivoting my entire platform. Maybe I should focus on "thriving" instead of surviving. Maybe I should stop talking about the darkness.

It hurt. Like, punched in the throat, hurt. That specific ADHD rejection pain that feels like your whole body just wants to curl up in a ball and cry.

Then something clicked.

She couldn't relate because SHE'S NEVER BEEN WHERE I'VE BEEN.

She's teaching dentists to "step into bigger vision and leadership."

I'm throwing life preservers to dentists who are drowning.

She's at the summit teaching people to climb higher.

I'm at base camp doing triage on people who are bleeding out.

Both are necessary. Neither is wrong. But they're completely different missions.

My mentor serves dentists who are ready to optimize and lead. I serve dentists who are googling what I googled. Who are struggling to get through each day. Who are questioning every decision they've ever made.

The dentists she can't relate to? They're exactly who need my guide.

Here's what I've learned about putting your work into the world:

Not everyone will get it. Even people you respect. Even people whose opinion matters. And that's not just okay - it's proof you're doing something that matters.

My guide isn't for dentists who want to "step into leadership." It's for dentists who want to step away from the bridge. Different audiences. Different missions. Different messages.

The darkness in my guide? That's not a bug. It's the feature. It's what makes it lifesaving for someone who's in that same darkness right now.

So I'm keeping every word. Every dark story. Every uncomfortable truth. Because somewhere, there's a dentist playing Candy Crush at 2 AM, googling things they shouldn't be googling, and they need to know they're not alone.

They need someone who can relate.

And that someone isn't my mentor.

It's me.

P.S. - To my fellow creators putting vulnerable work into the world: Not everyone needs to understand your mission. The people who need your work will find it. Trust that your too-muchness is exactly enough for someone.

P.P.S. - Maybe this guide is just version 1.0 of something bigger I can't see yet. Maybe I'll look back in a year and cringe at how raw it is. Maybe I'll never consider it done and it will be a living thing that grows as I grow. Here's the truth: I'm flying blind here, making it up as I go, sponsored by ADHD hyperfocus and over-sharing. I'm probably doing it all wrong by traditional standards. But my mentor gave me one gift that transcends her inability to relate to my work - she told me to trust myself. So here I am, trusting that my too-muchness is exactly enough for someone. Trusting that perfect is the enemy of helpful. Trusting that putting my mess out there beats keeping my "perfect" locked inside. She taught me to trust myself. She just didn't realize I'd trust myself enough to be someone she couldn't relate to.