“Twice Broken. Twice Reborn.”

The year was 2014. As the plane descended into Melbourne, my heart raced. I leaned against the window and whispered, “This is it… my new beginning.”

I was 22, filled with excitement, and convinced that life in Australia would be smoother, brighter, and easier. In my mind, the streets were lined with opportunities, and I just had to pick the right one.

But the truth arrived quickly. Finding work was harder than I ever imagined. Rejections piled up like bricks. “Sorry, not enough experience.” “We’ll get back to you.” “You’re not the right fit.” I smiled politely every time, but inside, I was breaking.

Still, I thought I wasn’t alone. I had “friends.” We cooked together, laughed together, and for a while, I believed I belonged. One evening, over instant noodles, I sighed, “Man, I don’t know how long I can keep looking for jobs like this.” One of them patted my back, grinning. “Don’t worry, bro. As long as you have us, you’ll be fine.”

I believed him. I wanted to. Finally, after months of struggle, I landed my first job — $19 an hour. I ran home, bursting with excitement. “Guys! I got the job. Nineteen dollars an hour!” One of them smirked. “That’s amazing. So… dinner’s on you tonight, right?”

We all laughed. I didn’t know then how often I’d hear that line. “Dinner’s on you.” “You’re earning, bro, you can cover me.” “You got this, right?” And I said yes. Every time. Because I thought loyalty could be bought with generosity.

But money runs out when you don’t plan. And so it did. When the job ended, so did the “friendships.” Calls went unanswered. Messages left on “read.” When I finally begged for help, one said casually, “Sorry, mate. I’m busy. Can’t help.” The silence after that call was louder than any rejection letter I had ever received.

Soon, I was sitting alone in my small room, staring at an empty wallet. I whispered to myself,“How did it come to this? I came here chasing dreams, and I can’t even afford food.”

There was only one choice left. I had to return to India.

Making that phone call to arrange my ticket was humiliating. “I… I need help to come back. I can’t do this anymore.” The pause on the other side crushed me before the voice finally said, “Come back. We’ll figure it out.”

The flight home was suffocating. Looking out the window, I felt my chest tighten. I’m not just leaving Australia. I’m leaving behind my pride. Back in India, I found a night-shift job. The office lights buzzed, the work was dull, and I felt like an outsider. One colleague sneered one night, “You don’t really belong here, do you?” I forced a smile. “Maybe not. But I’m here to work.” But inside, my heart whispered: This isn’t where your story ends.

After my shifts, while the world slept, I stayed awake. I studied HR, communication, management. My laptop became my best friend. Some nights I argued with myself.

“You’re too tired. Sleep.”“No. Keep going. This pain will build your tomorrow.”

Months later, after endless rejections, I finally received the call.“We’d like to offer you the position of HR Manager.” I stared at my phone in disbelief. Tears welled up as I whispered, “Finally… my comeback.” And for a while, life was good again.

As an HR Manager, I learned more than HR. I got into different departments, handled clients, solved queries. My confidence grew. I felt unstoppable.

But late 2020 changed everything. My father passed away. The loss ripped through me. After the rituals, I tried going back to work, but I couldn’t. The chair at my desk felt foreign. The noise of the office unbearable.

One night, sitting in silence, I told myself, “Maybe it’s time to build something of my own. For Dad. For me.” So I did. I started my own software company. At first, it was exhilarating. I closed good deals, delivered projects on time, felt the pride of building something real. For a year and a half, it looked like success was mine.

But then came the project that changed everything. To go live, I needed approval from an external party. I thought it was routine. Instead, it became a nightmare. They rejected my deployment again and again. I worked days and nights, fixing every issue they pointed out, but nothing was ever “good enough.”

The client grew furious. “Why is this still not live? What’s wrong with you?”

I pleaded, “It’s not the product. It’s politics.” But he didn’t care. Later, I learned the truth: approvals only came if you belonged to a circle of companies that ruled the market. Outsiders like me were never going to be accepted. The project collapsed. My client walked away. My company closed. This time, the fall was brutal. I wasn’t just broke — I was shattered. Grieving my father, betrayed by the system, and watching my dream die again, I locked myself away. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. I couldn’t leave my room.

One evening, my wife sat beside me. She held my hand and said softly, “I know you’re broken. But you’ve come back before. You can do it again. And this time, you’re not alone.”

Her words were the first light in months of darkness. Slowly, I pushed myself out. I started applying again. Rejections came, but I was used to them. After countless interviews, I finally landed a stable job in the government sector. It wasn’t the dream I had once built, but it was solid, secure, and gave me space to heal.

Now, when I look back, I see a journey not defined by one failure, but two. Once in Australia. Once with my company. Each time, I thought it was the end. Each time, I was wrong.

Because failure is never final. It is only the test before transformation. Your journey may not be smooth. You might fail once, or even twice. You might feel betrayed, broken, or at the edge of giving up. But every setback is a lesson, every failure a stepping stone. What matters is not how many times you fall, but whether you rise each time with more strength, wisdom, and resilience than before. Trust yourself, embrace the struggle, and never let failure define you—because your greatest comeback may be just around the corner.