Part X: Sent. And Let Go.
Our dog loves the lake. The moment I throw his toy into the water, he dives in without hesitation. He paddles towards it with determination, grabs it, and proudly carries it back to shore. The moment he drops it at my feet, he looks up at me expectantly. So I throw it again. Into the water. Out of the water. Again. And again. Always with the same enthusiasm. Always with the same wholehearted commitment.
Sometimes I wonder whether he ever thinks about whether there will be another throw. Probably not. He brings the toy back. What happens next is no longer in his paws. That thought stays with me later, when I’m back home.
A few minutes ago, I had a job interview. Not with a person. With an artificial intelligence. After a friendly introduction, the AI interviewer asked me five questions. After each answer, it summarised my response with remarkable accuracy. For a moment, the conversation almost felt human. Almost. Now I’m curious to see what happens next.
The job search has changed dramatically over the past few years. There was a time when applications were carefully assembled, printed, and mailed. A cover letter. A résumé. References. Diplomas. Eventually, a letter would arrive. Sometimes an invitation. Sometimes a rejection. Occasionally even with a personal note.
Today, our applications travel digitally. And very often, we aren’t writing to people first. We’re writing to systems. Algorithms help decide which applications are even seen. Artificial intelligence assists with the initial screening. If we’re lucky, an automated email politely confirms that our application has been received. If we’re not, it quietly disappears into a digital universe. Silently. Without a trace. Without a single reply.
I’ve come to believe that rejection is disappointing. But silence is unsettling.
Perhaps because our brains dislike unfinished stories. They wait. They hope. They speculate. They invent possibilities. They keep doors open that may already have been closed. And that takes energy.
The truth is, every application begins long before we press “Send.” We study job descriptions. Compare requirements. Rewrite cover letters. Refine our résumés. Search for exactly the right words. Try to express years of experience in a way that speaks to one particular opportunity. Sometimes we spend hours doing just that. And then comes one simple moment. A single click. Send.
I used to think that this was where the waiting began. Today, I see it differently. Today, I believe this is where my part ends. As long as the application is still saved on my computer, it belongs to me. I can improve it. Rewrite it. Sleep on it. Change a sentence. Add another example. But the moment I press “Send,” it no longer belongs to me.
From that moment on, it enters a world over which I have no control. Algorithms. Recruiters. Internal candidates. Budgets. Timelines. Business decisions. Chance.
I cannot control what happens next. I can only control how carefully I prepare. How honestly I present myself. How well I put my experience into words. Everything else is beyond my reach.
That realisation has changed more than I expected. These days, I send an application. And then I let it go. Not because I don’t care. But because I’ve learned to invest my energy where it can actually make a difference.
Later that evening, I find myself thinking about our dog again. Every single time, he brings the toy back with the same enthusiasm. Whether I throw it again is not for him to decide. Yet he brings it back anyway.Perhaps there is a small piece of wisdom hidden in that. We cannot control what happens after we have given our best. But we can decide whether we give our best in the first place. And sometimes, perhaps, that is the real art. To send. And to let go.