It’s that time of year: rejection season. Across the country, high school seniors are beginning to hear back from their top choices. But these aren’t the only students getting rejection letter upon rejection letter; here at Washington University, those letters are all too familiar.

Failure is a natural part of life. A year ago, when I received rejections from a few of the top schools in the nation, I dealt with real failure for the first time, and, as cheesy as it may sound, it helped me gain a stronger sense of myself and my limitations. Sure, it rocked me, and I felt demoralized, but I eventually overcame that defeat and recognized where I could improve. That ache of failure is what pushed me to grow—without it, if I were to become desensitized to failure, then nothing would push me to be stronger.

Now, a year later, I recently received a rejection to a program I hoped to join. My reaction, though, was starkly different from that of the year prior. I opened the email, read the fine print and shrugged. I accepted the rejection, even though I had worked hard, put significant effort into my application and thought I was a solid candidate. I wasn’t outraged, hurt or in any way bothered. I was upset that I wouldn’t be a part of the organization, but I wasn’t upset with myself for not succeeding.

All of this leads me to the conclusion that I have grown comfortable with failure—something that likely affects most young people in a negative way. This comfort stems from the language used in emails and letters that inform the applicant of their status. Collecting the key lines from those emails shows a definitive pattern of language. They typically fit the frame of: “Due to the unexpected high number of applications and the limited spots available, we regret to inform you that we cannot offer you a position at this time. This year’s applicant pool was extremely competitive, and while your application was strong, tough decisions had to be made.”

Too many rejections inform us that we did nothing wrong or that there’s nothing we could have done better to get the job or position. In some forms, the language is subtle; while in others, blatant. Yet they are all a more professional version of the breakup line: “It’s not you; it’s me.”

This language is problematic. By telling applicants, and especially students, that their application was strong and competitive and that the only reason they missed out was because of the conditions of the applicant pool, blame is removed from the student. This phenomenon of indirectly discouraging improvement is not the attitude that should be bred in our generation. It’s certainly an issue outside of Wash. U. as well; college rejection letters all use the same language, giving the implication: “We really wanted you; we promise! You’re awesome! But there’s just too many awesome people. But you’re awesome!”

Teaching students that it’s not their fault when they fail makes them comfortable with failure. When the blame is transferred from the applicant to the conditions of the selection, the sting of failure is greatly diminished. While a lesser sting might sound more pleasing in the short-term, it’s detrimental to personal growth. The pain of loss makes everyone try harder the next time in order to avoid that overwhelming crush of failure. If Wash. U. hopes to develop strong individuals devoted to self-improvement, then its various institutions, departments, programs and organizations need to use language that stings a little. Being comfortable with failure is not something in which to take pride, and Wash. U. needs to take responsibility for the mentality fostered.