I'm the Best Pick Me

an ode to the little orphan boy in all of us

John Irving’s The Cider House Rules is one of those rare stories that burrows into your soul, quietly revealing the complexity of being human. It’s a book where every character is both noble and flawed, which is to say, deeply relatable. Set in an orphanage in the early forties, it grapples with morality, hypocrisy, and the lifelong question of responsibility for our choices.

But the scene that’s stayed with me over the years isn’t about morality or grand decisions—it’s about a small boy doing everything he can to be chosen. One of the orphans, as adorable as can be, sees a couple arriving at the orphanage to adopt. With the earnestness only a child can muster, he wipes his face, tucks in his shirt, and runs up to them, declaring, “I’m the best! Pick me!” It’s heart-wrenching when, later, we see him crying alone because the couple didn’t pick him.

Homer, the older orphan, consoles him with a simple truth: “It’s not your fault. They wanted a girl.”

It’s a scene that cuts deep, not just because of the boy’s heartbreak but because of its universal resonance. Aren’t we all, in some way, that orphan boy? Don’t we all clean ourselves up and declare, “I’m the best! Pick me!”? We want the job, the promotion, the opportunity, the relationship. We believe, on some level, that if we try hard enough—if we’re good enough, smart enough, beautiful enough, worthy enough—then we’ll get what we want.

I decided to publish this post on New Year’s Day because it’s a day that many people make resolutions. Is this I wonder just our inner orphan boy hoping this year will be the one where we are finally “good enough” for the love, recognition and belonging we all desperately crave?

We even believe, perhaps, that we can bargain with life. That there’s a formula to secure all the good things: do the right thing, work hard, check the right boxes, and the universe will reward us. It’s seductive to believe this because it gives us a sense of control. But life, with all its capriciousness, rarely plays along.

The Pain of Not Being Picked

Midlife is where this illusion starts to crack. There comes a time when, no matter how many shirts we tuck in or how earnestly we declare our worth, we realize we’re not getting picked. And it’s not just one thing—it’s a slow drip of rejections. Someone younger, shinier, and hungrier gets the job or the promotion. A culture that once celebrated youth and beauty starts to look past us. For women, this can be particularly hard. Even if we’ve railed against the triteness or misogyny of being objectified, there’s a certain “je ne sais quoi” we lose when we stop being noticed. At first, it’s a relief not to be reduced to a piece of meat. And then, slowly, it stings to realize that, somewhere along the way, we’ve become invisible.

Rejection hurts. It always hurts. Even when it’s not personal, it feels personal. And that’s the tricky thing about life—it’s not always about whether we’re the best, brightest, or most deserving. Sometimes it’s just that they wanted a girl. And here’s the weird thing - despite the undeniability of the passing of time - inside we still feel like the young desirable and up and coming things we used to be. There is an inner solidity to our sense of self that and our sense of what is possible that doesn’t match the personae the world sees.

Reframing the “Pick Me” Mindset

The wisdom, if there is any, lies in this: not everything is a referendum on your worth. Sometimes, rejection has nothing to do with you. Sometimes “they just wanted a girl.” And other times, even if it does, it’s not a condemnation—it’s just part of being human, flawed and noble all at once.

But here’s the real shift: maybe it’s not about being “picked” at all. Maybe it’s about stepping off the carousel of proving ourselves. This isn’t easy in a world that values success and achievement. Yet what if, instead of trying to meet someone else’s criteria, we create our own? Not in a clichéd “pick yourself” kind of way, but in a quieter, more profound recognition that life isn’t about securing a spot on someone else’s list. It’s about realizing that you’re already here. You’re already living. So, whether it’s obvious or not your presence matters. You don’t need permission to exist meaningfully, beautifully, and messily in this world.

The word worth comes from the Proto-Germanic werthan, which means to become. Time has distorted this word to equate it to our value - our desirability - handed to us by someone else. In fact, it’s not tied to whether we’re chosen, admired, or validated by the world. It’s our birthright and it’s something we uncover through the messy process of living, loving, and trying. Our worth lies in seeing who we’ve become over the years, through heartbreaks and triumphs, through the courage it takes to keep showing up, even when no one is watching. Maybe that’s the gift of Midlife - to have enough time under our belts to truly appreciate how we have and continue to show up for this crazy dance known as life (cue Good Riddance by Green Day).

That orphan boy’s heartbreak wasn’t about his worth. It was about the illusion that his worth was tied to being chosen. And maybe the peace, if there is to be any, lies in untangling those two things. Life isn’t a game of being picked; it’s about showing up, messy and imperfect, for what’s already yours: the chance to live, love, and feel it all. The chance to notice, even in the rejection, the sheer miracle of being here at all.