If you told freshman-year me that I would lose almost every BBYO election I ever ran for, I probably would’ve laughed, and then cried.

BBYO has always been more than just a youth group in my family; it’s a legacy. My mom served on her regional board twice, my dad multiple terms as chapter Godol, and aunts and cousins and family friends have been active across the Movement, from chapter to international levels. I grew up hearing stories about conventions, lifelong friendships, and the impact BBYO had on shaping who they were. So when I joined, it felt like stepping into something much bigger than myself. It wasn’t just a club; it was tradition, family, and purpose all wrapped into one. That’s probably why every election, every role, and every “no” meant so much to me.

When I first joined BBYO, I had this dream of climbing the ladder. I wanted to be the leader people looked up to, the one who gave inspiring speeches, who made a difference. I ran for Chapter S’ganit, fully believing I could do it. But when my name wasn’t called, my heart sank. I tried to smile through it, but that night, I cried quietly in my room.

Still, I picked myself back up and got nominated for Chapter Sh’licha instead. It wasn’t the position I imagined, but it became the one that changed me. I learned how to plan meaningful programs, connect Judaism to real-life moments, and bring people together around values that mattered. Losing S’ganit taught me that leadership doesn’t always look like standing at the front of the room; it can also mean guiding from the side.

Later that year, I aimed higher. I ran for Regional Sh’licha and lost again. That one hurt even more because I felt ready. I thought I had proven myself. But that loss pushed me back home to my chapter, where I served as N’siah, rebuilding Osher BBG into something stronger and more united than ever. It reminded me that sometimes, the best kind of leadership is the one closest to home.

Then came the big one: Regional N’siah. I had dreamed of that position since I was in eighth grade. It was all I talked about. I watched N’siot before me and thought, “That will be me one day.” But when it wasn’t, it felt like my world stopped. I questioned everything, “Was I not good enough? Did I not work hard enough? Why did I even try?”

It took me a long time to realize that losing doesn’t mean you failed. It means you cared deeply enough to take a chance.

That loss led me somewhere new: Regional Sh’licha, a position I never expected to love as much as I do. It’s the role where I’ve made my biggest impact, running campaigns, guiding counterparts, and finding ways to help others see the beauty in giving back. Every rejection before it led me exactly here.

Even after that, I faced another “almost.” I made it to the second round for CLTC Coordinator, something I’ve wanted since my own CLTC summer. I could already picture myself helping teens find their voice the way I did, but it wasn’t my time. And you know what? That’s okay.

Because BBYO has taught me something bigger than winning: it’s taught me why I lead.

I lead because I care about people finding their home here. I lead because I believe in the magic of late-night laughter after a Shabbat program, and the feeling of connection when someone tells you BBYO changed their life. I lead because even when the titles disappear, the impact remains.

Rejection hurts. It’s messy, confusing, and sometimes makes you want to give up. But it also humbles you. It teaches you to cheer for others even when it’s not your name being called. It teaches you that leadership isn’t about getting the role, it’s about what you do when you don’t.

I’ve learned that every “no” in BBYO has given me something else instead: a lesson, a friendship, a new path, or a reminder of why I started.

So, to anyone feeling defeated after an election, a program, or an interview: you are not alone. Your story isn’t over, it’s just being rewritten in a way you can’t see yet. One day, you’ll look back and realize every “no” was simply guiding you toward the right “yes.”