Still Pending

Sometimes we forget that behind every job application, every résumé, every quiet “I’m still looking,” there is a living, breathing human heart. A person who once walked into rooms with a laugh that could lift the ceiling, who carried hope like a secret in their pocket, who believed there was always another chapter waiting to be written.

David was one of those hearts. A lighthouse for so many. He wasn’t just a marketer — he was a mentor, a quiet champion, the person who always knew when someone needed an encouraging word. He stayed late to help with final slides, brought coffee to a nervous new hire, and offered a reassuring nod across crowded meeting rooms. David made people feel seen when they felt invisible.

But when it was his turn to need support — to hear, “We see you. We still need you. You’re not done yet” — he was met with something far heavier than a simple no: silence.

David tried. He shaped his life into bullet points, squeezed decades of wisdom and warmth into a few neat lines, all to catch the attention of a stranger behind a screen. He showed up to interviews, practiced answers in the mirror, forced hope into his voice even as the weight grew. Every “we decided to move forward with another candidate” landed like a fresh bruise on a tired spirit.

Each “no” isn’t just a “no.” It’s a whispered question that echoes in the dark: “Am I still enough? Do I still matter?”

I believe he felt he couldn’t succeed in finding another position that made him whole. And so, he took his light into another room, so to speak.

A room beyond our reach. A room without endless application forms, automated rejections, or ghosted emails. A room where he could finally rest, finally be all of himself, without proving anything to anyone.

We don’t talk enough about what this quiet loneliness does to people. How it unravels the strongest hearts. How it turns bright sparks into fading embers. How it convinces even the kindest souls that maybe the world would be better off without their light.

To those still fighting, still refreshing inboxes in the middle of the night, still stringing together pieces of courage for one more application — please hear me: you are not invisible. You are not a list of gaps. You are not a “thank you for applying” email. You are human. You are someone’s reason to hope. You are enough.

Your light matters. Your presence matters. You deserve to be here — fully, messily, completely.

And to David — I hope that other room is everything this world forgot to be. Gentle. Soft. Unconditionally welcoming. I hope it’s filled with music, endless laughter, and voices reminding you, “You were always enough.”

We will carry your light forward, David. We will remember. We will see each other, truly, before it’s too late.

Thank you for sharing David’s story with us, Kristen Joyal. His light lives on in every heart he touched.